Ockham
by Nirav
Summary: Thirteen complicates her life. As usual. "Your bottle is empty, but your glass has been filled/And I don't want to break your heart, but I probably will".
1. One

She worked as a bartender, at the bar closest to Remy's apartment. It was the kind of bar that college seniors and grad students went to when they wanted to feel worldly and mature and distant from beer pong tables and wet t-shirt contests, filled instead with posters from bands that had played there in the seventies and an ambiance of simplicity—four-top tables scattered around the room with plain black coasters on the plain wood, covered in faded black paint and the occasional piece of pocketknife graffiti.

Remy went there because she got tired of bartenders taking her keys and being forced to go home with her latest conquest or call a cab. Two blocks wasn't too far to stumble, alone or halfway to third base in drunken fumblings.

It wasn't what Remy was looking for—she wasn't, that is. A quiet barkeep with porcelain skin marked with occasional bruises and liberal amounts of red red freckles to match her red red hair, Megan was the kind of girl who would watch with a sad quiet smile as Remy called for her fifth vodka tonic on the rocks in the midst of her latest pickup, would hand her the drink and wave goodbye as she left with a new girl's hand in her back pocket and lips brushing against her neck while she shrugged into her jacket. Megan watched, night after night, and noticed the few days absence after Spencer and onions and House and ravaging disappointment, and even had the balls to mention it, the first night back when she offered her usual shy sad smile that barely reached her clear grey eyes and a vodka tonic on the rocks.

It was her first real challenge. It wasn't that she hadn't had to work for earlier conquests; no, House had been (as usual) right on the money when he said it was all about the challenge when she forewent men and unsure women in favor of the attractive, confident ones. It was more that, even though she couldn't put a label to it, something in her wanted to know why Megan's smile was always sad, where those bruises on her fair skin came from, why she was the only bartender familiar with her who hadn't yet tried to take her to bed or fix her with Barkeep Psychotherapy 101. She was a project, a slow-going marathon that occupied Remy's mind even when she was sitting at the bar with another girl, or nodding in response to her wave goodbye while she fumbled to locate her keys as a brunette doctoral candidate from Princeton half-wrapped around the doctor's thinning frame, thumb drawing maddening circles against her hipbone.

It was months after Spencer that she actually had a conversation with Megan, long after Remy had almost died so prematurely at the whim of a manic gunman, though that hadn't really changed much about her—she went through Foreman's drug trial and had never again let her personal life bleed into work, but she still went out every other night, and she still found her challenges, and she still worked diligently on her inexplicable progress with the redheaded barkeep by way of nods and waves and careful smiles and carefully casual salutations. It was a slow night, and Megan had looked sadder than usual as she offered Remy a small smile with her first drink, and Remy resolved herself to making actual progress in this unknown game tonight.

"Megan," she called out softly over the music as the redhead shuffled past after delivering another round to the raucous business-schoolers at the other end of the bar. Megan stopped abruptly, looking up and shaking her bangs out of her eyes, mirrored sadness eyes waylaid by an undercurrent of surprise.

Remy offered what she hoped was a friendly smile, and held up her empty glass. "Would you?"

"Sure," Megan said, pushing loose hair behind her ear and taking Remy's empty glass. "Vodka tonic, right?"

"Actually," Remy said, propping one elbow on the bar, chin in her hand. "I was thinking about branching out, broadening my horizons. Any suggestions?"

"Sure," Megan said. "You like scotch?"

"Of course," Remy said, smiling a little wider as Megan fetched a fresh glass and put together a drink for Remy. She accepted it with a polite nod, not looking away from Megan as she took a shallow sip. Her eyes fluttered shut as the smooth feel of expensive scotch slid down her throat, spreading warmth throughout her chest and stomach as she swallowed. Opening her eyes again, she noted with satisfaction that Megan was still watching her, and she smiled once more. "That is _really_ good," she said softly, leaning forward just barely over the bar. "Thank you, Megan."

"You're welcome," Megan replied, stumbling as she appeared to realize she didn't know her patron's name.

"I'm Remy," the brunette said. She set her drink down and reached out over the bar, offering her hand. Megan clasped it warmly.

"Nice to meet you, Remy," she said.

That was the first.


	2. Two

The second came a week later, after a long day of House badgering her about her sex life and Foreman badgering her about the Huntington's. She slouched into the bar and slumped in a chair, mumbling incoherent acknowledgements for the vodka tonic that appeared in front of her.

Sometime after the fifth of Megan's dangerous mix of scotch and lemon juice and bitters and ginger ale disappeared down her throat and brushing off four disinteresting men and three disinteresting women and their disinteresting drink offers, her head was bowing towards the bar in exhaustion. The empty glass in her vision was removed by a pale hand, another hand with a cloth appearing to wipe down the wood varnish. She stared as some kind of cleaner was spritzed onto the bar and then wiped away with a white cloth, clutched loosely in a thin hand with long fingers and bitten-down nails, freckles and a delicate wrist encased in a silver watch.

"Evening," she said to Megan, raising her eyes to look at the bartender. Megan smiled softly at her, as always, and paused in her ministrations.

"Hi," she said. She rested her palms on her side of the bar, resting her weight against it casually. "You've been very anti-social tonight."

"Contrary to popular belief, I'm actually an introvert," Remy said, unable to keep a mildly flirtatious tone from her voice, or a small smile from tugging at her lips.

"Never would've guessed," Megan said with a small smile of her own.

"So, could I bother you for another drink?"

Megan's smile faltered briefly. "I think you should call it quits for tonight," she said slowly, as if choosing her words carefully.

Remy's own smile slipped from her lips. "Why's that?"

Megan shrugged noncommittally, shifting her weight back. Remy tried to ignore the distance the redhead was adding between them. "You've had plenty tonight," Megan said. "And you're obviously not your usual self, despite how much you've had, for starters."

"My usual self," Remy repeated flatly. "What would you say my usual self is, then?"

Megan shrugged again, fidgeting with the rag in her hands nervously. "Confident," she offered shyly. "Not cocky, but almost. Comfortable in your own skin."

Remy bit back a laugh. "Really?" she drawled. She propped her chin in her hand, leaning forward and staring appraisingly at Megan. The other woman shrunk slightly under her gaze. "For someone working as a bartender, you're surprisingly shy."

Megan met her gaze briefly once more. "If by that you mean I'd rather watch people than talk to them, then yeah, okay."

"That would be what I meant, yes," Remy said. The flirtatious tone was returning, her indignation fading in the face of her curiosity and intrigue. She tilted her head to one side, eyeing Megan closely.

"You know," she said eventually. "I know a guy like that. Who likes to watch people, that is. But you're not like him."

"I'm not?"

"Not in the least," Remy said, flashing a smile. "He likes to manipulate people. You… aren't like that, are you?"

"No," Megan said quietly.

"Didn't think so." Remy smirked, leaning back from the bar. "You're too timid to be like him."

Indignation flashed beneath the sadness in Megan's eyes. Her mouth opened slightly, as if she wanted to protest, but she simply clenched her jaw shut and watched as Remy laid a handful of bills onto the bar and slid from her chair languidly, shaking dark hair out of her face.

"Good night, Megan," Remy said lowly. Her voice dropped in timber, gaining a husky quality that had more than once coaxed a stranger into her bed. She felt a stab of victory underneath her intoxication as curiosity replaced the indignation in Megan's eyes, sliding into her coat and wrapping her scarf around her neck slowly. With a final nod, she slid the strap of her bag over her shoulder and stepped away from the bar, walking slowly towards the door in an attempt to keep from tottering on the heels she wore. Through the haze of five scotch whiskeys, she noted that the bar was empty except for her and Megan and the other bartender. It was later than she thought.

Outside, in the sobering cold and flickering light from a street lamp, she paused, a wave of dizziness forcing her to stumble to a bench. The cold from the frozen wood seeped through her coat and her slacks, chilling her legs. She took deep breaths, inhaling the refreshingly cold hair greedily as it slowly forced a measure of sobriety into her brain.

As the dizzy spell passed, she slumped back against the bench tiredly, thanking whatever god was listening that it was a Friday night and she could actually sleep in the next day. A sigh slipped past her lips, breath crystallizing in the air in front of her briefly.

"Do you need a ride?" A voice floated down from above her. Soft, hesitant, familiar. Remy sleepily craned her head around, taking in the sight of Megan standing uncomfortably beside her bench, arms crossed tightly across her chest to ward off the cold air. She stared momentarily, wondering how long she'd been out there.

"Remy?" Megan's voice pulled her out of her wonderings. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Remy heard her voice say, fuzzy through her exhaustion.

"Do you need a ride home?"

"No," Remy said slowly, pushing herself to her feet. "It's only a few blocks. I walked."

"It's freezing out here," Megan said. "Come on, I'll give you a ride."

"Okay," Remy mumbled, wondering when she'd hit the wall of exhaustion, to the point where her pride took a backseat to her need for sleep. "Thanks."

"Sure," Megan said. She put a hand on Remy's elbow, steadying her. "Come on, my car's across the street."

Remy followed her across the deserted street, enjoying the pleasantly numb feeling in her hands and feet from the cold as she wondered at the fact that she could feel Megan's hand even through her heavy coat, suit jacket, and shirt sleeve.

In Megan's car, she slumped tiredly back against the headrest, eyes slipping shut once more. Music floated out of the speakers as Megan started the car, and Remy smiled as she recognized the voice carrying over the music. Her fingers, resting against her frozen thigh, twitched along with the song of their own accord as she started to drift off to sleep again.

She awoke to someone shaking her gently. "Remy," Megan was saying hesitantly.

Remy woke slowly, eyes half lidded as she looked up at the redhead in momentary confusion. "Hi," she said, voice husky with sleep. "We there?"

"Well…we're at my place," Megan said, ducking her eyes slightly. "You passed out as soon as you sat down, and refused to wake up and tell me where your apartment was. So…I figured you could just crash here tonight."

"Oh," Remy said slowly. She unbuckled her seatbelt and stood from her seat in the car uncertainly. "I'm sorry….you really don't have to—"

"It's fine," Megan said, more certainty in her voice than Remy had grown accustomed to.

Remy took a deep breath. This was far from how she'd wanted things to play out, even in her current intoxication—which was apparently far greater than she'd initially thought. "Thanks," she said again. "Shall we, then?"

"Sure," Megan said, her usual small smile appearing. "Come on." She led Remy into the building in front of them and into the elevator, where they stood awkwardly on the ride up to the sixth floor.

Megan's apartment was much like Remy's own, with the same open and airy feel to it, oak floors and whitewashed stone walls instead of cherry and brick. "Nice place," Remy commented, shortly before she stumbled on the step down into the living room area. Megan caught her, an arm around her waist to steady her before she fell.

"Thanks, "Megan said. "Let's get you to bed."

"Okay," Remy mumbled, leaning onto Megan as she was led into the bedroom.

"Do you do this regularly?" she asked once she was sitting on the edge of the bed. "Y'know, the whole good Samaritan bringing home strays thing?"

"Not really," Megan said. She unwound her own scarf and took off her jacket, tossing them over a chair in the corner. "But you're a regular, y'know? And I have to say, you really don't seem like the ax murderer type."

"Not so much," Remy said with a smile, leaning back on her hands. "Violence takes a lot of effort."

"Imagine that," Megan said dryly. She stood in front of Remy, hands in the pockets of her jeans. "Do you want something to sleep in?"

"Sure," Remy said. She shrugged out of her coat and suit jacket, letting them fall on the bed behind her. Hooking her thumbs in her trademark suspenders, she slid them off her shoulders, sighing without meaning to at the slight relief in pressure in her shoulders.

"Suspenders?" Megan appeared in front of her again, some clothes in her hands. Her eyebrows were raised inquisitively. "Unexpected."

"I'm full of surprises," Remy said flirtatiously, standing up closer to Megan than she really needed to be.

"I'm getting that," Megan said, her voice more hesitant than usual. A delicate flush was spreading under her freckles at Remy's proximity. "Here's something to sleep in. I'm going to crash on the couch, so make yourself comfortable, yeah?" She pushed the clothes into Remy's hands, ducking her head and starting to back away.

Remy tossed the clothes on the bed behind her hastily and grabbed Megan's wrist, pulling her back and moving her free hand up to Megan's neck as she stepped in and kissed her abruptly.

Megan pulled away after only a few seconds, a shocked look on her face. "Whoa, wait, Remy," she breathed out, the flush deepening to a full on blush. "I mean, I'm flattered, but I'm not—"

Remy cut her off with another kiss, a gentle press of her lips to the redhead's, one hand at her waist with the fingertips of the other sliding slowly up her neck, along her jaw. She broke the kiss shortly after Megan started to return it, foreheads resting together, eyes half shut still.

"Sorry," she breathed out. "But I really needed to do that."

"Oh," Megan squeaked. "Okay?"

Remy took a deep breath and stepped back, her hands sliding from Megan slowly. The other woman's eyes opened slowly, overly bright against her pale face. "Why?" she asked eventually.

Remy shrugged noncommittally, turning to pick up the clothes she'd dropped on the bed. "Because," she said quietly, clutching the sweatpants and t-shirt tightly as she strode across the room to the bathroom door. She paused in the doorway, not looking back. "You're the only person who looks sadder than I feel."

Without looking back to gauge Megan's reaction, she closed the bathroom door behind her. The bedroom was empty, the door shut, when she emerged.

That was the second.


	3. Three

Remy awoke to the sound of her phone, the persistent beep nudging her awake through her hangover. She groaned quietly, heel of one hand pressing against the pounding in her temple, and pushed herself up on her elbows slowly. Her unfamiliar surroundings slowly came into focus as she blinked, wincing at the feel of dried out contact lenses in her eyes as they were slowly rewet.

The beeping continued. Remy shook her head, hoping to relieve herself of the cobwebs, as she shuffled over to the chair in the corner where her bag and clothes sat neatly with Megan's coat and scarf from the night before.

She paused, her fingers unconsciously brushing down the length of the cashmere scarf that was draped carelessly over the back of the chair, before locating her phone. It flashed indignantly at her, indicating a message from the hospital. Groaning, she threw the phone on the bed. The last thing she wanted to do was show up at the hospital disheveled, hungover, and in her clothes from the night before. House would have a field day, Foreman would have a cow, and Cuddy—if she was there—would probably have a coronary and demand a drug test.

She took a deep breath, pushing her hands through her hair, before quickly dressing, thankful her clothes didn't smell too much like smoke. She borrowed Megan's hairbrush to straighten her hair, and washed her face. As she wiped the water from her face, she noticed a familiar bottle of perfume on the shelf—the same scent she wore most of the time. Sending up a prayer to whatever deity would claim responsibility for the stroke of luck, she sprayed some on. She made the bed as neatly as she could in a hurry as her phone beeped at her again with another message from the hospital.

Quietly, she tiptoed out of the bedroom and towards the front door. She paused once more, seeing Megan curled up on the couch in the living room, fast asleep. The walls of the living room were covered in bookshelves stuffed to bursting with vinyls and CDs; the overwhelming amount of music making Remy itch to ignore work and stay there all day, raiding the collection and blasting the speakers. Instead, she dug a piece of paper out of her bag and scrawled a note of thanks to Megan, returning to the bedroom to leave it on the bed, and then made her way out of the apartment.

As she called a cab on her way out of the building, she memorized Megan's address.

* * *

The third time she spoke to Megan, she was sober and nervous. She had spent all of her Saturday in the ER, along with every other available doctor in town (save for House), dealing with a college house party that had gone bad when the second floor collapsed, thanks to extensive termite damage and someone throwing a bottle of champagne into a fireplace. Sunday she dragged herself out of bed to run her weekly errands and, after those were done, to go see Megan.

She stood outside of the hazily familiar door, hands clenching at the bag in her hands, working up the courage to finally knock. When she did, she immediately wished she hadn't, finding herself completely unprepared for it to open.

Before she could escape, however, it did open, revealing a surprised Megan, barefoot and in a t-shirt and yoga pants.

"Hi," Megan said uncertainly.

"Hey," Remy said, her voice equally uncertain. "Am I…interrupting?"

"Not really," Megan replied, one hand smoothing over her t-shirt nervously. "Just yoga… it's a hobby." They both fidgeted minutely, mutually awkward.

"So, what's up?" Megan said with forced cheer after a few seconds. She stood to the side, allowing Remy room to walk in.

"Well, see," Remy started once she was inside the front foyer, standing uncomfortably. Megan's shyness felt infectious, Remy casting her eyes down at first her shoes, then Megan's feet, to avoid looking the redhead in the eye. Delicate ankles and painted toenails with a dusting of faded bruises. "What I mean is, I wanted to thank you for letting me crash here last night. I feel really bad for falling out on you in the car and making you take care of me, and what you did was completely unnecessary, but I still really appreciate it." She paused, shaking her hair out of her eyes. "So, thank you, Megan. I owe you."

"It's no problem," Megan said. She stood, much like she had the night before beside the park bench, arms wrapped around herself, almost protectively. "You looked like you needed some help."

"Yeah," Remy murmured. "I guess I did." She relaxed minutely. Her grip on the bag in her hands loosened, causing the paper to wrinkle loudly.

"What've you got there?" Megan asked, seemingly desperate to change the subject.

"Oh," Remy said. She smiled and held the package out to Megan. "For you. To demonstrate my thanks."

Megan stared at her, flushing lightly beneath her freckles. "You really didn't have to do that. I mean—"

"And you didn't have to give me a ride last night," Remy interrupted. "Much less let me sleep in your bed." She stepped closer to Megan, pushing the package into Megan's hands. "And really, don't get flustered yet. It might not be anything you actually want, you know," she added dryly.

Megan offered her a half-smile, accepting the package. Slowly, the slid the record out of the bag, her eyes widening as she did. "Oh my God," she breathed out. "Is this real?"

Remy laughed quietly, pleased that the gift was going over well. "Very real," she said. "The obi strip is still together and everything, see?"

"Whoa," Megan said, eyes still wide as she traced her finger over the familiar album cover. "My Generation," she mumbled. "Just…wow."

"So, you like?" Remy said quietly, hoping that the uncertain, hopeful note in her voice wasn't as obvious as it felt. She'd stumbled across it at a thrift shop a year ago, buying it for a twentieth of its true cost from a clueless store clerk, and had wondered what to do with it—she wasn't one for memorabilia, but she loved the Who too much to pass it up. She had almost given it to House the previous Christmas, but was suddenly extremely pleased that she'd passed him over.

"I love it," Megan said. She looked up from the album cover, the first truly happy smile Remy had seen from her gracing her lips. "I mean, are you kidding? This is incredible! It must have cost a fortune!"

"Actually, no," Remy said, ducking her head modestly. "I found it at this secondhand place a while ago, and the kid at the store had no clue how much it was worth. He gave it to me super cheap. I think that he thought it was some crappy old Japanese record, nothing more."

"What an _idiot_," Megan said emphatically, fingers sweeping over the obi strip.

"Glad you like it," Remy said. She tucked a strand of her hand behind her ear to busy her hand, feeling suddenly too close to Megan. Her fingers twitched unconsciously, and she shoved her hands in her pockets.

"Wow," Megan repeated, voice hushed. She looked up, meeting Remy's eyes. "Thank you again."

"No worries," Remy said. She smiled at her and stepped back. "Anyways, I wanted to drop that by, but I have to head out… weekend's errands, you know." She fumbled with the buttons on her coat, pulling it tightly around her waist.

"Yeah, I know," Megan said. She shuffled past Remy, pausing to set the record gently on the kitchen counter, and opened the front door. "Thanks again."

"Really, it's not worth that much gratitude," Remy said, pausing in the hallway and facing Megan. She pulled her car keys out of her pocket and offered her a rueful smile. "I'm sure I'll see you soon."

"Most likely," Megan said softly. "Have a good night."

"You too," Remy said. With a quiet nod, she started off down the hallway.

"Remy," Megan called out suddenly.

Remy paused, turning around slowly. "Yeah?"

Megan flushed, standing motionless in her doorway, mouth half open. "I…" she stumbled over her words. "Never mind," she said finally. "I'll see you later."

"Okay," Remy said slowly. "Bye." She continued down the hallway, head bowed tiredly.

That was the third.


	4. Six

A/N: I've been having some serious disagreements with FFN today, so I'm going to be posting things on an lj account first from now on. Link's in my profile, and there'll be probably one more chapter there tonight than there is here, if you're interested.

The sixth time she spoke to Megan, she was halfway to friends with her and Megan didn't blush as much. She'd found out that Megan went the Boston Conservatory for two years and had lived in New Jersey since leaving, and had been working at the bar for three years and as a yoga instructor at a gym for two. Megan knew she was a doctor with a misanthropic boss and liked the challenge of picking up women. Remy still went out to the bar most nights and threw back vodka tonics and scotch whiskey bitters and waved to Megan every time she left with a new girl and the occasional boy sliding hands along her hips and lips along her jaw.

"Slow night," Remy remarked. Her third scotch whiskey bitter sat on the bar in front of her, fingertips tracing a design in the damp glass.

"Yeah," Megan said in her usual soft tones. "I guess someone put the word out that thirsty Thursday is a bad idea if you actually have to get up in the morning."

Remy smirked. She tossed back the last of her drink and licked her lips, eyes half shut as she indulged in the heat sliding down her throat to settle in her stomach. "It's not always a bad idea. If it was, I'd be shit out of luck."

"Not all of us are blessed with your metabolism," Megan said with a smirk of her own.

"Lucky me," Remy drawled. She glanced at her watch, sighing. "I think I'm going to head out. Long day." She winced internally at the memory of a day of breaking into an apartment—which involved hoisting herself up a fire escape and sustaining a nasty scratch on her hip—and holding down a paranoid patient so Kutner could change his IV—which resulted in a wayward fist slamming into her collarbone.

She was buttoning up her coat when she heard her name half-whispered from the other side of the bar. Glancing up, she met Megan's eyes inquisitively. The redhead was standing awkwardly behind the bar, twisting a cleaning rag in her hands. "What's up?"

"I…well, I just wanted to…" She shifted her weight, looking down at the floor. Remy, sufficiently intrigued, stepped back up to the bar, wedging her way between two chairs and leaning her elbows on the freshly-cleaned wood.

"What's up?" she repeated, one eyebrow raised, feeling a faint smile play at her lips. She resisted the urge to tease the redhead, like she had been growing fond of doing the more she spoke with Megan.

"Why did you kiss me?" Megan blurted out, quiet even in her outburst. "When you crashed at my apartment. Why did you kiss me?"

Remy inhaled sharply, looking past Megan at an unspecific spot in the shelves of alcohol behind her. "You already asked me that," she said softly, her voice softer than Megan's. "And I already answered."

"It didn't make sense," Megan said, stepping closer to the bar to allow the other bartender to move past her.

"Oh?" Remy said.

"Yeah," Megan responded. She leaned against her side of the bar, bracing her weight on her hands. Remy momentarily glanced down at Megan's hands, taking in pale skin and a faded bruise and two silver and one steel ring on her fingers, before she glanced back up.

"Not everything has to make sense," Remy murmured. "Especially not in life."

"Doesn't mean I can't try to make sense of it," Megan said. She cocked her head to one side, a shy smile on her lips as she matched Remy's coyness. "And that makes life easier to deal with."

"Not always," Remy said darkly, eyes drifting past Megan's head once more. It made perfect sense that she had Huntington's; she could launch into a lengthy explanation of genetics and Mendel and why there had always been a chance and why it had worked out that she had it and that there was scientific, logical reason of why she was going to die a humiliating painful death that made perfect sense. And it didn't make life any easier to deal with.

"Remy…Remy!" Megan said sharply.

Remy shook her head, blinking rapidly. "What?"

"You zoned out," Megan said, concern leaking into her voice. "What's wrong?"

"I…" she paused, staring at Megan. She wondered what would happen if she told Megan the truth. If she told her that she was dying, if she told Megan that she wouldn't grow old and have a family and a house and a fulfilling life. If she blurted out that no matter how hard she tried to care about her quality of life, that even after realizing that she didn't want to die at the whim of an idiot with a gun, she still couldn't make herself really want to live anymore, either.

The feeling of a hesitant hand on her arm jerked her out of her thoughts once more. She shook her head again. "Nothing," she said. She flashed a smile that felt too tight across her skin. "I'm just tired." Remy pushed herself away from the bar, shaking her hair out of her eyes and widened her smile forcefully.

"You're lying," Megan said. She didn't move, remaining propped against the bar in a deceptively casual manner.

"Who isn't?" Remy muttered. "Have a good night."

She was halfway across the bar before she heard her name again. Halting in her tracks, Remy took a deep breath, tamping down on her temper, which she felt rising in her throat. The burn spreading across her cheeks wasn't nearly as comforting as the burn of a scotch whiskey bitter or vodka tonic spreading down her throat. She exhaled slowly before she turned around slowly.

Megan was climbing over the bar with ease, sliding to her feet between two barstools and made her way across the almost-empty bar. "Hold on a second, will you?"

"Look, Megan, I'm just…really tired," Remy said lowly.

"No, I get it," Megan said. She stopped in front of Remy, hands in her pockets. "I just wanted to ask you something."

"What's that?" Remy said, holding in a tired sigh. She wanted nothing more than to go home and sleep.

"Have you ever heard of a band called the Legal Cubans? They're a local band, from the college."

"I don't think so," Remy said. Despite her exhaustion, she couldn't suppress the prickle of curiosity.

"Kind of New Pornographers meets Bloc Party with a folky influence." Megan smiled softly at the intrigued look Remy knew had replaced her earlier annoyance. "They're playing tomorrow night. A kid I know is the bassist and wants me to go, and I was thinking that since you're a music person, too, you might want to come with."

Remy blinked, her anger vanishing in lieu of interest. "That is quite possibly the most you have ever said aloud at once."

Megan blushed, glancing down at her shoes, and shrugged noncommittally.

"Are they playing here?" Remy asked. She felt herself relaxing, her anger fading, replaced by the inexplicable fondness she felt for the petite redhead, the fondness that she tried to ignore, tried to drink away, to fuck away, that she didn't want to feel for anyone.

"Nah," Megan said. "At McGinty's… that place down by campus?"

"Never been there," Remy said. "When's the show?"

"Around nine," Megan said. Her blush had faded. "So, you in?"

"Yeah," Remy said, unable to keep the affection out of her voice. "I'll meet you there?"

"Do you know how to get there?"

"I…no," Remy admitted. She smiled embarrassedly. "Good point."

"I can drive, if you want," Megan said.

"Sure," Remy said softly. "Meet at your place?"

"Sure," Megan repeated. "Cool." She glanced down, fidgeting uncomfortably. "I'm sorry if I ticked you off," she added in a hesitant voice.

"You didn't," Remy said hurriedly. "I mean… really. It wasn't anything you said, I promise."

"What was it, then?"

Remy sighed frustatedly. "I'm just tired, you know? I had a shitty day, and I'm tired, and I get cranky when I'm tired, and you got the short end of the stick. I didn't mean to snap at you."

"Still, I feel bad," Megan said. "You weren't upset until I brought up… ah, well, until I started asking you questions."

"Don't worry about it," Remy said. She couldn't fathom why Megan's feelings meant so much to her when she still couldn't bring herself to care one whit about anything else, anyone else, even herself. "It's nothing you said."

Megan fidgeted silently for a long moment before taking a deep breath and looking up, staring Remy in the eye. "Then will you answer?" she asked boldly. "You had to have had a reason, and I think I deserve to know why you kissed me."

Remy unconsciously tilted her head slightly, staring Megan down with half-lidded eyes. The surge of infuriation she expected to feel never came; instead, before she could process that it might be a bad idea, she reached out and took Megan's hand in hers, holding it up between them delicately, fingers brushing over the bruise she'd noticed earlier.

"Why do you always have bruises?"

Remy watched as Megan's newfound boldness shattered, her eyes darkening and freezing wide open, mouth hanging halfway open, visibly tensing at the question. She felt Megan's hand tremble inside of hers in the split second before Megan yanked it away, as if Remy had held a lit match to it.

"Tell you what," Remy said softly. "When you want to talk about this—" She gestured to Megan's hands, now shoved as deeply as possible into the pockets of her jeans. "I'll talk about that."

She paused, looking at Megan tiredly, all the annoyance and intrigue and curiosity of the past minutes escaping her and leaving her exhausted once more. An errant lock of red hair had slipped from behind Megan's ear, mingling with her bangs. Remy's fingers itched to touch it; she settled for checking the buttons on her coat and pushing her own hair behind her ear.

"I'll see you tomorrow night," she said finally. She offered what she hoped was a friendly smile before striding out into the cold and back home.

That was the sixth.


	5. Seventeen

It was the seventeenth time Remy talked with Megan that it all fell apart. Nights at the bar had become fewer and farther between over the preceding weeks, the workload for diagnostics having skyrocketed, leaving Remy too tired to even think about going out at all. A handful of concerts and awkward lunches had occurred instead, Remy unable to stop herself from spending time with Megan even when she couldn't fathom why she wanted to in the first place.

They were at Megan's apartment the seventeenth time, after going to another local show. Remy was, for once, sober, having volunteered to drive so Megan could drink. Megan, consequently, was buzzed on Johnny Walker and Grey Goose, and sat curled up on one edge of the sofa tiredly.

"I think I might puke," she mumbled. Remy couldn't help but laugh softly at the absolutely pathetic sight of her friend (because sometime, she'd started to consider Megan a friend—the friend, actually, the only one outside of work in this state). She moved into the kitchen, retrieving a bottle of water from the fridge and handing it to Megan.

"Aspirin?"

"Medicine cabinet," Megan said, wincing as she twisted the top off the bottle. "In my bathroom."

"Got it," Remy said. She kicked her shoes off, leaving them in the living room, and went into Megan's familiar bedroom. In the bathroom, she rummaged through the medicine cabinet, searching for the elusive bottle of aspirin as she hummed along tunelessly to one of the songs they'd heard earlier in the evening.

"Aha," she murmured, standing on her toes to look over the top of a bottle of allergy medication and spying a small aspirin bottle, wedged between the corner of the cabinet and a compact mirror. Reaching in carefully, she still upset both the allergy medicine and the compact when she pulled out the aspirin, the other two falling into the sink. "Damn," she said.

Picking up the allergy medicine and the compact, she ground out another curse when the lid of the compact fell off, the hinging having broken when it fell. The lid clattered into the sink, along with a tiny plastic bag filled with white powder.

Remy froze, allergy medication still in her hand, as she stared at the bag of heroin in front of her. With trembling fingers, she reached out and plucked it out of the sink, staring at it in disbelief. Her diagnostician's brain went into overdrive, wondering why Megan had heroin, how long, how, when, why why why.

Carefully, she opened the bag, dipping one finger into the powder and smearing it along her gums, testing it. The drugs were cut—the kind one got from a dealer they'd been buying from for a while—instead of pure. This was far from the first time Megan had bought or used.

The sound of Megan coughing from the living room jerked Remy out of her disbelief. Swearing again under her breath, she shoved the allergy medication and compact back into the medicine cabinet, resealing the bag of drugs and sticking it in her pocket on her way out of the room, aspirin in hand.

Sitting down on the coffee table in front of Megan, she dropped two aspirin into her palm and handed them to the redhead. "Here you go," she said quietly. "Drink up."

"Thanks," Megan mumbled.

"No problem," Remy said slowly. She took a deep breath, drawing up her nerve, and dug the bag of drugs out of her pocket and held it out in front of Megan. "Care to explain this?"

Megan froze, hand still outstretched and loosely clutching the two aspirin. Her eyes, clear grey clouded with scotch and vodka, dropped to stare at the drugs dangling from Remy's fingers.

Remy waited patiently, counting out thirty seconds of Megan's unwavering silence before she sighed and sat back, dropping the drugs on the table next to her and bracing her elbows on her knees. She pulled her eyes away from Megan's guilty posturing and stared instead at her bare feet, peeking out from under the frayed hem of the jeans she'd had since med school. Familiar, simple, comforting; quite foreign from the constant undercurrent of awkwardness, shyness, inexplicable determination she felt around Megan.

Inhaling deeply, she shook her hair out of her eyes, not looking away from the familiar stain that marred the denim covering her left knee, a remnant from an oil change gone bad three years ago. "Are you careful?" she asked softly. She forced herself to look up, unable to prevent herself from wondering for who-knows-which time why on earth she was so drawn to a quiet yoga-fiend bartender.

Megan had retracted her hand finally, setting the aspirin and the water bottle on the small table beside the couch. She was curled in on herself, arms wrapped around her stomach as she pressed herself into the corner formed by the back and arm of the couch; she refused to meet Remy's eyes.

Remy sighed, rubbing her hand over her eyes and wishing that she had taken her contacts out before going to the show that night. She had a dark feeling that this was going to be a long night. "Megan," she said. She winced inwardly at the inadvertent edge to her voice that seemed to jolt the redhead into finally looking at her.

"Megan," she said again, her voice softer. "Talk to me."

"Why?" Megan mumbled.

"Because you're my friend, and you're doing drugs, and it worries me," Remy said simply.

"Why me, though?" Megan met her eyes squarely this time, chin set in defiance. "You come into my bar and take girls home and never talk to them again, but you say good night to me every single time. You kiss me for no reason and offer no explanations. You show up out of the blue with an amazing gift, just because I let you crash at my apartment. Why me and not one of the other girls? Why _me_?"

Remy stared blankly at Megan. The anger she expected to rise in her throat, that would have exploded inside her had anyone else spoken to her that way, never came. Instead, there was only a dead silence that hung between the two of them, expanding and growing and pushing them further apart with each second Remy struggled to collect her thoughts.

"I don't know," she said finally. Heaving a frustrated sigh, Remy stood from the table, shoving her hair back from her face and moving to stand on the other side of the table. "I don't know why, I don't know why _you_." She crossed her arms defensively over her chest. "Anyways, don't deflect this on me, Megan. I'm not the one with heroin in the bathroom cabinet."

"Yeah, like you've never done them before," Megan snapped. She stood as well, her drunkenness forgotten or ignored in her own indignation. "I'm not blind, you know. You think I couldn't tell when you were high or coming down when you came in sometimes? That I just didn't notice the circles under your eyes, the track marks on your arms, the way you kept losing weight?"

"This isn't about me," Remy ground out. "Stop making this about me." She turned around, resting clenched fists on the shelves of records in front of her. A week ago, the fourteenth time she and Megan spoke, she had spent seven hours sprawled out on Megan's living room floor while she listened to old records and Megan did yoga and cleaned her apartment. Remy fought the urge to put her fist through the wall of music in front of her.

"Then get of your goddamned high horse!" Megan shouted. Remy flinched at the sound, closing her eyes and breathing in deeply to try and control the tremors shaking her body. "It's none of your business what I do on my own time, and even if it _was_ any of your business, you certainly wouldn't have a single bit of moral superiority to condemn me with. You were as bad as I've ever been."

The fury lacing Megan's voice snapped something in Remy. She slammed her hands against the shelves in front of her, shaking records and dislodging dusts and causing Megan to jump back in shock as Remy spun around and bellowed, "I'm _dying_! What's your excuse?"

Remy watched with detached disinterest, her anger leaving as swiftly as it had arrived, as Megan seemed to deflate right in front of her eyes. The rage that had burned in her eyes vanished, her shoulders slumping; even her hair seemed to go limp at the sound of Remy's unintentional confession.

"What?" she said in a tiny voice. Her hands dangled uselessly at her sides.

"Forget it," Remy said stiffly. She strode away from the shelves, unintentionally taking the long way around the room to keep the table and couch between her and Megan, shoving her feet into her shoes and snatching her purse and coat from the counter.

"Remy, wait," Megan called, scrambling over the back of the couch and following her out into the hall. Remy ignored her, doing her best to hold back the tears she felt welling in her eyes as she hurried towards the stairwell. Three steps shy of the stairs, she felt Megan's fingers wrap around her wrist, the gentle pressure not enough to force her to stop, but slamming her to a halt anyways. She closed her eyes, her posture stiffening to the point of caricature.

"Leave it, Megan," she whispered. "Let it go. Please."

"Remy," Megan said. Exhaustion weighted her voice. "You can't drop something like that on me and expect me to just drop it." Her fingers tightened on Remy's wrist, tugging gently until she turned around, head down and eyes locked to the floor.

"Come on," Megan said gently. "Come back inside." She led Remy back down the hallway to her apartment, depositing her on the couch. Megan perched on the coffee table, staring at Remy concernedly. Tiredly, Remy pushed her hair back, then wrung her fingers together as she refused to meet Megan's eyes; anything to keep her hands busy.

Neither of them spoke for the longest time, an uncomfortable silence spreading between them. Remy kept her eyes locked on her fingers, focusing on the blunt edges of her fingernails and the smeared stamp from the concert they'd gone to earlier and the delicate bones of her hands that creaked painfully as she clenched her fingers together ever tighter, as interlocked with each other as she felt intertwined with her diagnosis. The soft give of the couch cushions behind her made her feel queasy; the reversal of their positions from just a few minutes earlier, the almost-irony of it, was not lost on her.

"When I was a kid," Megan said suddenly, shattering the silence with her usual soft voice. "My parents and I used to go on these trips. When I was little, it was just hiking and camping. We'd go backpacking for a weekend when the weather was good, and every summer we took these weeklong trips down south, to the Appalachian Mountains and the A.T., and backpack all around."

Megan paused, shifting awkwardly on the table she sat on and leaning forward, elbows propped on her knees. Remy finally looked up, her eyes following Megan's absent gaze to stare at the fading bruises on the back of her freckled hand.

"When I got a little older, around eight or so, they started taking me climbing. That's how they met, you know, climbing Grand Teton when they were younger. It was the one thing that all three of us loved to do. We were all really different, you see. Dad was an engineer, and Mom was a CPA, and I hated anything even related to math or science. But we all liked to climb, so that's what we did. They'd been thinking about climbing Aconcagua, in the Andes, before I was born, and I jumped on the bandwagon and convinced them that we should go do it together before I went to college. We started planning that trip when I was twelve.

"When I was sixteen," she continued after a hesitation. Her voice dropped, bordering on a whisper, growing unsteady. "It was summer vacation, and we were out climbing in the Rockies. We were rappelling back down to our camp at the end of the day, and I was tired, and I slipped. I only fell about ten feet or so, but I impacted on the rock face hard enough to cut up my arm a lot. It wasn't deep, so I thought it'd be fine, but it wouldn't stop bleeding. I passed out on the hike back to the camp, and the Forest Service had to send in a helicopter to take me to a hospital."

Megan took a deep breath. Her fingers swept gently over the bruises on the back of her other hand. "The doctor in Denver diagnosed it as ITP." She glanced up at Remy. "You know what that is, right?"

Remy nodded, her throat dry. "Idiopathic thrombocytopenic purpura," she said quietly. "Clotting disorder."

"Yeah," Megan said. She took another deep breath. "I was lucky I didn't bleed out, then. After that, my parents flipped out. They refused to let me climb any more, didn't want me doing any sports at all. We had so many fights about it; God. They sold all my climbing gear, started filling up my schedule with private music lessons and SAT tutoring and somehow got me into this local orchestra to take up my time. As far as they were concerned, I was never going to do anything that would put me at risk for bleeding out like that again.

"They still went to climb Aconcagua. We had this huge fight before they left. I couldn't believe that they were going to go on this trip we'd been planning as a family and leave me behind to play the cello in Boston. We barely spoke when I left to move into my dorm, and a week later they were on a plane out of the country."

Her voice trailed off. Remy sat frozen, unwilling to breathe, so caught in Megan's story that she hadn't given a single thought to her own since it started.

"There was a storm," Megan said finally. "Freak incident. It hit the camp they were in that night. The entire climbing group, even the guides, they all died. Thousands of miles from home, and I hadn't even said good-bye to them properly."

Megan fell silent once more, her eyes locked on the bruises on her hand. She picked the bag of drugs up from the coffee table, turning it over in her fingers. Remy could see a telltale tremor in her shoulders as a few tears leaked out of her eyes.

"So that's it," Megan said finally. Fatigue laced her voice, dragging it down and weighting her words. "I should have died ten years ago with my parents, and I didn't. I'm still here, only because of a stupid medical condition that kept me locked in a conservatory when I wanted to be out climbing. Nothing's felt right since then. That's why I started, and that's why I won't stop." Not meeting Remy's eyes, she dropped the drugs back onto the coffee table and pushed herself to her feet. Silently, she trudged into the kitchen and retrieved a bottle of vodka from the counter.

Remy remained on the couch, unmoving, eyes unfocused and fingers still clenched together. She didn't move until Megan reappeared in front of her, standing uncomfortably on the other side of the coffee table with her arms locked around her stomach, shoulders still trembling slightly.

"That's my excuse," she said softly. Her voice was empty, blank, hollowed out of every emotion that had been laid out over the course of the night. "Your turn."

Her words finally brought Remy out of her stupor, cloudy eyes slowly lifting up and focusing on Megan's form, taking in the sight of her friend standing in front of her with her arms wrapped so tightly around her stomach that Remy wondered foolishly if they were the only thing holding Megan's body in one piece. Her imagination was running rampant with Megan's story, filling in the faces of Megan's parents and Megan falling off a rock wall and Megan's world coming apart with a phone call from the southern hemisphere. Her stomach felt as if it had solidified, filing her insides and crushing the rest of her organs until it was struggle to even breathe.

"I…" she started, and faltered. She struggled to swallow, to inhale, to bring any oxygen to her lungs. For the first time in months, she thought of Spencer, and how it had felt to look in someone's eyes and see the pain and frustration and the ticking clock she couldn't escape in her own; how it had felt to see all of that evaporate in a single heartbeat and wafting onion fumes. She wondered how long it would take for any singularity or camaraderie she felt with Megan to disappear, and how much it would hurt this time, and how far she would end up falling when it came apart.

"I'm sorry," she finally whispered. "I should… I have to… I can't. I just can't do this." She bolted to her feet and half-ran for the door. Through her unsorted frenzy of emotions, the stab in her chest when Megan didn't follow this time served as a dark satisfaction that she was right to walk away. She was thankful that she made it out of Megan's front door before she felt the tears start to fall.

That was the seventeenth.


	6. Spencer

Author's Note: so, I've had this chapter, and the last one, written for, oh, several days now. They both would've been posted sooner if FFN didn't harbor a secret desire to make my life far more complicated than it actually needs to be. As a result, the chapter I'm working on now will probably go up on Livejournal in a few days, but I probably won't feel like fighting FFN for at least a few weeks. Ye have been warned.

PS: Points to whoever can a) find the song fragment in here, and b) tell me where it's from. I'll totally be impressed.

* * *

In the month between the seventeenth and eighteenth times Remy talked to Megan, she was almost fired by House twice, lectured by Cuddy three times, and spurned Foreman's ill-advised yet inexplicably cocky advances at least half a dozen times. She avoided the bar, and instead ventured out to bars and clubs she hadn't been to in almost a year; her conquests became fewer and farther between, nights out foregone in favor of sitting tiredly on her couch and sipping her own attempts at mixing a decent scotch whiskey bitter. Occasionally, she would think she had worked up the nerve to try and make her way back into Megan's life and apologize, explain, put their friendship back together; the farthest she ever made it was halfway to the bar before shame burned in her throat and guilt solidified in her stomach and she panicked, convinced that she had irrevocably shattered the delicate friendship they'd once had.

Then, four weeks and five days after the seventeenth time, she saw Spencer.

It was unplanned and unexpected and not in the least what she wanted. Yet she couldn't ignore the fact that Spencer was standing in her doorway at 8:44 on a Wednesday night, hands in her pockets and an uncharacteristically nervous smile on her lips. Remy stood dumbly, hand still on the doorknob, and stared at her without a single thought in her mind except for _why now?_

"Hey," Spencer said. Her voice trembled the tiniest bit, her nerves pushing to the forefront of Remy's perception.

"Hi," Remy said. Recovering some of her senses, Remy shook her head tiredly and stepped back, opening the door the rest of the way. "Do you want to come in?"

"Yeah, that'd be great," Spencer said. A minute amount of relief passed across her eyes as she carefully stepped past Remy and made her way into the living room, where she stood with her hands still in her pockets and shoulders hunched.

Remy counted to twenty in her head, waiting for Spencer to speak. "How are you?" Remy finally said, unable to manage the silence.

"I'm okay," Spencer said. She answered quickly, nodding vehemently. "A lot better than I was a year ago."

"Chalk another point up to House being a genius," Remy said dryly.

"Something like that," Spencer replied. She paused, finally pulling one hand out of her pocket and pushing her hair back nervously. It was longer now, Remy noted, brushing past the tops of her shoulders with a hint of loose curls.

"Not that it isn't good to see you," Remy said slowly. She hesitated, surprised to find that she actually meant it. "But what are you doing here?"

"I came to see you," Spencer said simply; the faint blush that spread across her cheeks belied her blasé tone. "I mean, I wanted to see how you are." She paused, avoiding Remy's eyes, and fidgeted with a button on her sweater.

"I don't know if that's weird," she continued eventually. "And don't worry; I remember your policy on repeat performances and all that jazz. But after everything that happened when I was in the hospital last year, and you stayed with me… well, for one, I don't know if I ever thanked you properly for that. I was a long way from home, and it was nice to have someone there looking out for me." The blush deepened, darkening her already-tan skin. Remy cast her eyes downwards modestly, inwardly pleased that she'd at least done one thing right since getting her diagnosis.

"But beyond that," Spencer said. "A lot happened over those few days, but I never forgot what you told me. About… you being sick, about the Huntington's. And I wanted to see how you were doing."

Remy stared at her blankly, semi-aware that her mouth was hanging half open. "I… what?"

Spencer sighed, sitting down on the edge of the couch. "After I got out of the hospital," she said slowly. "I was pretty ecstatic. I was fixed, you know? I wanted to put the whole thing behind me, forget it all, now that it was over with. And for a few months, that's exactly what I did. But after a while, I couldn't put it out of my mind forever, and the one thing that I remembered above all else was that you stayed with me. I used you to get to House, but you still stayed with me.

"And beyond all that," she added. "I couldn't put what you'd told me out of your mind. I couldn't forget how it felt to hear that I was going to die, and I couldn't stop thinking about how you must feel. I wanted to come see you sooner, but I kept getting sent away on business trips, and I didn't think that a phone call would work, so… here I am."

Remy sat down heavily in one of the armchairs, gazing at Spencer, intrigued. "Well," she said eventually. "I'm okay, I guess?"

Spencer snorted. "Come on," she said. "You're not even trying to lie convincingly."

Remy laughed weakly, resting her elbows on her knees and pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. "You're right," she said to her knees. "I'm not." With a sigh, she looked up, meeting Spencer's eyes. "I mean, the Huntington's hasn't started any symptoms yet. And I'm in a drug trial at the hospital that's supposed to yield some good results. So that's good.

"But, I…" she took a deep breath. "I screwed up something good, I think. With a friend of mine. Really screwed up." Internally, she marveled at how easy she was finding it to talk to Spencer. They hadn't really spoken much the first time around, even during the days she spent sitting in Spencer's hospital room to keep her company; she knew next to nothing about the other woman, but it felt far too good to let some of the past month out of her head for her to stop the words that were tumbling out of her mouth.

"I have this friend," she started. "Megan. She's a bartender at this local place." Slowly, haltingly, Remy laid out the details of her friendship with Megan for the first time, put it out there for Spencer to take in and analyze. For her part, Spencer sat silently on the couch, listening intently as Remy finally let out the shame and guilt and frustration she'd been holding onto for so long.

When she was done, Remy slumped back in the armchair, exhausted. Spencer was quiet, her legs pulled up to her chest and head cocked minutely to one side. Remy wondered when the last time was that she had said that much in one sitting, and felt a gnawing discomfort in her stomach that reminded her why she was so reticent by nature.

"Why _did _you kiss her?" Spencer asked abruptly.

Remy flushed, clearing her throat and standing from her chair awkwardly. "That doesn't matter," she said, hoping that it didn't sound quite as unconvincing as she imagined.

"Yeah, it does," Spencer said. She hadn't moved, her eyes following Remy's slow pacing with something that bordered on nonchalance and annoyed Remy to no end.

"Who says it has to?"

"Who says it has to not?" Spencer challenged. She sighed. "Look, I may be out of line or something, but I think it matters. Because if you don't know how you feel about her, then there's no way she can, and I think that she deserves to know regardless."

Remy slowed to a halt. Her head tilted back tiredly, feeling suddenly too heavy for her neck as it lolled backwards. She needed to do something about that crack in the ceiling plaster, she noted idly.

After a long moment of silence, she brought her head back forward, looking Spencer in the eyes for the first time since she started her explanation. Arms crossed protectively across her stomach, she shook her hair out of her eyes and spoke softly.

"I wanted to see if kissing her when she looked so sad would feel like kissing you when you thought you were dying."

She held Spencer's eyes for what felt like an unbearable amount of time, utterly incapable of reading a single thing in them, before she cleared her throat once more and looked away. After a brief hesitation, she shuffled into the kitchen and dug a bottle of water out of the fridge.

Spencer followed her after a few seconds, leaning against the island and fidgeting with her fingers.

"Why did you want to know that?"

Remy barked out a dark laugh. "Because when you were dying, I thought I might get a chance to try for something that at least resembled happiness." She chuckled mirthlessly at the baffled look that was clear on Spencer's face. "Look, it's not like I want you to die or anything. But when we thought that you were, that you even had close to the same amount of time left as I did? I let myself dream. I couldn't keep myself from thinking that, hey, there's this girl, and we're in the same boat, and we actually kind of get along, and I already know that she's pretty good in bed. Maybe this will work out okay somehow.

"Then House figured it out," she continued softly. Tears pushed at her eyes, and she glared at the ceiling once more, anger warring with shame in an attempt to ignore them. "And you weren't dying anymore. That hope that I'd let myself feel just… faded away slowly, and I was alone and still dying and feeling like someone had scooped out everything that made me _me_ and there was nothing left but some shell."

"Well," Spencer said eventually, her voice deceptively light. "I am pretty rocking in bed."

Remy laughed tiredly. "Yeah," she agreed. "I mean, I would've given you more than a seven." She pushed herself up to sit on the counter next to where Spencer stood, pushing her hair back to keep her fingers occupied; if she focused on her hair, or pulling at the torn cuticles on her fingers, or rotating the watch that had become too big on her wrist, she could ignore the exhaustion of the last month that was creeping in and pushing at her chest.

Spencer laughed, leaning her elbows on the counter casually. "I'd almost take that as a come on, if you weren't so against repetition."

"Well, I'm always willing to make a few exceptions," Remy murmured without really meaning to.

Slowly, Spencer pushed herself away from the counter, moving back a few steps. "Flattering, but it's not what you want," she said in the gentlest of tones. "Sleeping with me isn't what you want."

"How do you know?" Remy said. She braced her weight on her hands, cocking her head to the side and looking Spencer up and down slowly. Her voice had dropped, regaining the same husky quality that had lured Spencer into her bed the first time.

"Because you want to fix things with your friend," Spencer said simply.

"Doesn't mean I have anything against having some fun before I do," Remy said. Detachedly, she wondered why she was pushing for this when she was entirely ambivalent about it; regardless, she couldn't seem to stop herself.

"Well, I'm saying no, then," Spencer said. She sighed. "Look, Remy, I came here to see how you were, because you were good to me when you had no need to be, and I appreciated it. Still appreciate it, really. I'd like to have you as a friend, and maybe you could use having me as a friend, too. And I don't have any problem with a fun tumble to pass the time with you, but I do have a problem with it when you're only doing it because you want to avoid thinking about fixing this thing with your friend."

Remy inhaled slowly, counting to five before she exhaled just as slowly, staring at the ceiling yet again to avoid Spencer's eyes. "Okay," she said finally. "I'll give you that one. But answer me this, Yoda. How do you even know that I can fix this?"

"How do you know that you can't?"

"And if I can't, what then? Having confirmation that I blew it so royally isn't something I think I can handle, not after the last year I've had."

"Doesn't matter," Spencer said, her voice soft. "Because you shouldn't do it for you, but for her. You owe her an explanation, at least. You do it for her."

Remy gazed at Spencer appraisingly. "Are you a psychiatrist?" she asked abruptly. It occurred to her for the first time that there was a lot she didn't know about Spencer, a lot that she wanted to find out.

She laughed. "No, not a shrink," she said. "I'm a marketing consultant. Marketing is all psychology, though."

"Huh," Remy muttered under her breath. "Crazy."

Spencer shook her head, a small smile gracing her lips. "Okay," she said. "I'm going to go now. Here's my card. Let me know how it goes with your friend, yeah? And maybe we can do lunch sometime or something."

Remy fingered the edges of the business card absently. "Because I'm your friend," she said, half joking and half probing.

"Because you're my friend," Spencer confirmed. She walked back into the living room, sliding into her coat and picking up her bag. Remy stayed where she sat on the counter, staring at Spencer with an expression of sheer incredulousness.

"Let me know how it goes," Spencer repeated. With a casual wave, she made her way to the door. "Bye, Remy."

By the time Remy moved from her spot on the counter, an hour had passed since the door shut behind Spencer and it was ten minutes after midnight.


	7. Eighteen

The eighteenth time Remy spoke to Megan, it was two days after Spencer had been there, and the first thought that flashed through Remy's mind when she opened the door to her redheaded friend was that Megan had never been to her apartment before, replaced in short order with a mild panic that made her chest hurt.

"Hey," Megan said quietly. Her usual shy smile was nowhere to be seen as she stood in the hallway outside Remy's apartment, hair falling loosely around her shoulders, fingers tensed and tight around the strap of her purse. There were fresh-looking bruises—purpura, Remy corrected herself automatically, and a fresh pang of guilt tightened in her chest as she remembered again the last time they'd spoken—marring her forearm. "Can we talk?"

Remy stared dumbly at her as a few seconds ticked by painfully slowly, before shutting her mouth and wordlessly stepping back and motioning her inside. She shut the door slowly, a small measure of disbelief that Megan was standing in her apartment battling against the growing swell of apprehension in her throat.

Megan stood awkwardly next to the couch, fidgeting with a buckle on her purse and not meeting Remy's eyes. Remy, for her part, stood tensed and almost trembling with nerves ten feet away; she stared at Megan and desperately tried to conjure up a single thing to say, the almost-eloquent words she'd blurted out to Spencer two days earlier, an explanation that would fix their friendship. Nothing came, though, and instead Remy simply stood, bare feet rooted to cold hardwood floors, and shivered involuntarily.

Megan sighed suddenly, dropping her purse onto the couch and facing Remy with her hands tucked into her pockets. She looked as casual as Remy had ever seen her, if she ignored shoulders held in a tense line and tendons standing tight against the line of her neck. There was no fatigue in her eyes or dark circles underlining them to match Remy's, and a stab of irrational annoyance prodded at Remy's throat; a selfish part of her wanted Megan to have suffered as much over the past weeks as she had.

"I was going to wait," Megan said quietly. "For you to come back, explain, talk, whatever. I figured you would." She paused, eyes trailing downwards.

"The only steps," she muttered, voice impossibly soft, and she looked back up to meet Remy's gaze squarely. Remy felt an undercurrent of shame creeping up and pushing back the apprehension, and tore her eyes away from Megan's.

"Look," Megan started again. Her eyes were hard, her voice underwritten with a strength Remy had never witnessed from her. "I don't know where things go from here. But you owe me an explanation, I think. It's only fair. Let's start there and see where it ends up, yeah?"

Remy could only nod carefully, not trusting herself to speak yet. Megan matched her nod, an appraising look in her eyes, and she sat down primly on the couch. Hands folded in her lap, she watched Remy patiently. Waiting.

The seconds flipped by slowly as Remy bit her lip and stared at her toes and tried desperately to collect her thoughts in some semblance of order. A painful half-minute passed by, filling her head with flashes of memory and frustration and complete desperation; she finally looked up without meaning to and blurted out a strangled "I'm sorry."

Megan stayed silent, moving only to start twisting the ring on her thumb. Her discomfort was palatable.

Remy took a deep breath and let it out as slowly and silently as she could, counting to fifteen on the exhale. "I know I screwed up," she said finally. "In more ways than one. I guess I've never really been fair to you, the whole time I've known you. You were my friend, and I don't think I ever really treated you like one. So, I'm sorry for that.

"And I'm sorry for falling out on you like I did," she continued. "I dropped a bombshell on you, I guess, and then I left you hanging. That wasn't fair to you, especially not after—not with everything you told me.

"I'm sorry that I kissed you like I did." The thoughts she had been struggling to verbalize were suddenly expanding in her throat, desperate to be let out and pouring through her lips like a waterfall. "I was out of line, and again, it wasn't fair to you. I'm sorry that I never really explained to you why I did it. I'm sorry that I flipped out at you about the drugs, because you were right and I don't have any moral high ground when it comes to that."

Remy paused finally, forcing herself to breathe. Megan still sat silently on the couch, though the hard line of her shoulders and the slightest tremble in her fingers gave her discomfort away.

"And I'm sorry about your family," Remy said softly. "I'm sorry that you lost them, and I'm sorry that there's nothing I can do or say that will bring them back, or even make you feel a little bit better. I can't imagine what it's like, all of that, and I wish that I could fix it for you." She fell silent, watching Megan carefully for any reaction.

Long seconds passed, in which Remy couldn't make herself breathe and Megan couldn't seem to make herself speak. Remy traced the fingertips of one hand over the lines in the palm of the other, counting away the moments, at a loss of where to go from there.

After a painful minute and a half passed, Megan finally broke the silence. Looking up at Remy through her eyelashes, hands still clenched together in her lap, she spoke in a refreshingly reticent manner.

"Why did you kiss me?" Her voice was as hesitant as her words, soft and probing even in its uncertainty. The delicate blush that Remy had grown accustomed to over recent months spread under the freckles on her cheek, and a small rush of warmth grew correspondingly in Remy's chest.

"That's what you want to know?" she couldn't stop herself from asking. "Not… about what I said—"

"Not yet," Megan interrupted. Her voice was still gentle, but the determination she had shown up on Remy's doorstep with had returned, leaving no room for argument.

Remy laughed quietly, mirthlessly. "Well, it's kind of a buy-one-get-one-free kind of deal," she said sardonically. "Still want to know?"

"Yes," Megan said immediately.

Remy sighed. She finally moved, shuffling over to take a seat on the opposite end of the couch as Megan. She rubbed her hands over her eyes tiredly, as much an act of exhaustion as it was to buy herself more time to think.

"There was this girl," she finally said. She couldn't bring herself to look Megan in the eye, her gaze falling instead to a spot just behind the redhead's left ear. "Spencer. I picked her up at another bar, and in the middle of the night she had a seizure. I took her to my hospital, and she ended up a case in my department because no one knew what was wrong with her."

Remy paused, licking her lips nervously. The words were as hard to force out as she'd expected them to be. "We cycled through a few differentials, and came up with a diagnosis that gave her about ten years before she died. It sucked, but it fit, and at the time it was the only thing that fit.

"I was in some trouble with my boss." She couldn't bring herself to admit to how badly she had fallen down her spiral, that she had been fired; that shame could come out another day. "He didn't want me working anything, so I spent time with Spencer in the hospital. We were getting close.

"Then House had an epiphany and figured out that the diagnosis was wrong. She wasn't going to die, she had something entirely manageable. And everything went back to normal for her, except better, because she was cured."

Remy finally shifted her gaze to meet Megan's. "When I kissed her and she thought she was dying, it felt like… I don't know. Solidarity. Understanding. We were both in the same situation, and we both understood, and it just… fit." She paused, holding Megan's eyes with her own. "That's why I kissed you. Because she gets to live and kissing her would never feel that way again, and you look sadder every day than she did the day she thought she was dying. I thought I might find something like that again with you."

"Did you?" Megan asked. The immediate question startled Remy; she blinked rapidly, turning the question over in her mind repeatedly.

"I don't know," she said eventually. "It was different."

Megan nodded. She stood slowly, arms crossed over her stomach tightly, and paced slowly up and down. Remy remained still, eyes following Megan's movements stoically. Her exhaustion, compounded on itself for weeks, pressed on her temples and her eyelids drooped, her shoulders slumping slightly. The explanations she'd poured out for Megan left a hollow feeling in her chest; she felt neither lighter nor happier from the catharsis, but instead nothing more than an intense desire to _sleep_.

"What do you have?" Megan finally stopped her pacing, facing Remy with sad eyes. "You're sick, right? With what?"

Remy inhaled slowly. "Huntington's chorea," she said, forcing the words out slowly. She struggled to not look away. Megan didn't move, save for her brow furrowing in the slightest.

"What is that, exactly?" she asked. "I mean, I've heard of it, I think, and I know it's bad, but that's it."

"It's a neurodegenerative genetic disorder," Remy recited dully. "It tends to present in the mid-thirties, and impairs muscle coordination and cognitive function. The physical symptoms tend to present first, and the cognitive ones progressively afterwards. It's not fatal on its own, but fatal complications like pneumonia and heart disease, as well as injuries from falls caused by impaired muscle function, are common."

Familiar sadness worked its way back across Megan's features, and Remy steeled herself in preparation for the pity that so often followed knowledge of her disease.

"How long?"

Remy almost didn't hear the question, uttered more quietly than even the softest word spoken all evening. "Ten years," she whispered. A foolish part of her thought that maybe if she said it quietly enough, she could pretend it was never said, never true, never a real problem. "Give or take a few."

Megan nodded absently. Her eyes drifted downwards, fixing on her shoes; Remy's gaze inadvertently followed, her eyes locking on to the scuffed Scarpas that must have once been close to white. Remy stared hard at the shoes she recognized by virtue of a rock-climbing roommate at Sarah Lawrence and wondered absently why she'd never noticed before that Megan wore climbing shoes regularly.

Megan moved back to the couch, sitting down opposite Remy and pulling her knees up to her chest, pausing to kick her shoes off. She rested her chin on her knees, staring at Remy calmly. Remy felt her cheeks flush and looked down at her hands, waiting for Megan to speak.

"I don't know," Megan started. She paused, shifting back to relax against the arm of the couch. "I don't know if it would do any good to say I'm sorry," she finished. "I guess you're probably pretty tired of hearing that. But I want to."

"It won't hurt," Remy mumbled. "And no one else has said it, so I can't really be tired of it."

Megan's eyebrows rose slightly, but she seemed to swallow her words before she spoke. "I'm sorry," she said carefully. "Just like you're sorry about my parents, I guess. I'm sorry that I can't fix it."

"Thank you," Remy murmured. An uncomfortable silence spread between them once more. Megan didn't move her chin from her knees, and Remy slumped back, eyes locked on an obscure point in the air above Megan's head. Remy wondered if this counted as fixing things.

A beep from Megan's phone pulled them both back to the present. Blushing lightly, Megan fumbled in her purse and extracted the device. She read the text message quickly and with a sigh. Dropping the phone back into her purse, she slowly unfolded herself, feet dropping to the floor next to her shoes.

"I have to go to work," she said apologetically. "Danny's 'sick'." She slipped her feet into her Scarpas, and Remy smirked.

"Sick?"

Megan laughed at the skepticism in her voice, and the hollow feeling in Remy's chest filled in a little with something vaguely comforting. "Yeah," she said. She offered a small smile. "He's got a date. Can't let work stand in the way of that."

"Of course not," Remy deadpanned. She rose to her feet as Megan did, determinedly not thinking about the awkwardness that continued to hang between them. Stepping around her coffee table, she led Megan to the door, opening it and stepping to the side. "Have fun at work," she said, and inwardly cursed her undeniably lame words.

"Thanks," Megan said. She stood in the doorway, weight shifting back and forth subtly. "Have a good night."

"I'll see what I can do," Remy said wryly. She smiled crookedly, and when Megan returned it, Remy's smile felt honest for the first time in weeks.

Megan hesitated, fiddling with her purse strap, and then stepped forward and hugged Remy carefully. The unexpected gesture was as awkward as anything ever was between them, but it did little to keep Remy's arms from wrapping around Megan's back, or her forehead dropping tiredly to rest on Megan's shoulder. It was easily the most intimate contact Remy had experienced with anyone in over a year. Rose and jasmine and sandalwood tickled her nose as she inhaled slowly, familiar Burberry perfume invading her senses as her muscles slowly relaxed into Megan's embrace.

Megan's arms tightened briefly around her before she stepped back, regarding Remy levelly. "You coming out tomorrow night? I'm working."

Remy nodded without thinking. "I'll be there."

"Good," Megan said with a smile. "See you then."

"See you," Remy echoed as Megan waved, almost childishly, before turning and walking down the hallway. Remy stood in the doorway, watching her until she disappeared into the stairwell.

Eventually, she shuffled back into her apartment and shut the door quietly behind her. Exhaustion weighted her entire body, but for once it didn't feel suffocating; she slipped under the blankets on her bed, tugging a pillow tight against her chest. With a quiet grumble of contentment at the memory that tomorrow was Saturday and she wasn't on call, she finally let her eyes drift shut and for the first time in weeks, slept peacefully through the night.

That was the eighteenth.


	8. Spencer II

Author's Note: in case there's anyone who's actually be wanting an update in the last month... I'm terribly sorry for the delay! I started a new job, and then I moved, and then I got saddled with what was either the worst and most stubborn cold known to man, or swine flu. Then there was Christmas shopping to manage, and a trip to the other side of the country for after Christmas to get in order. Needless to say, things have been a bit hectic.

So, here's an update! (A double feature, if you will.) Consider it a holiday gift, because I doubt I'll have any time to write between now and the new year. Happy Christmas/Chanukkah/Kwanzaa/Yule/winter solstice!

* * *

Two weeks after the eighteen time Remy spoke to Megan and two days after the twenty-fourth time, Remy dug Spencer's card out from under a stack of newspapers on her kitchen table and leaned against her refrigerator, staring at it thoughtfully.

The weeks following her living room confessions to Megan had been good to Remy. There were still moments when her heart thudded painfully in her chest, the unbearable weight of her impending sickness compressing her chest to the point where she found herself grasping in her pocket for her inhaler and pressing a hand to her painfully tight chest. There were nights when she wanted nothing more than to drown herself in a handle of scotch to avoid the horrible drawn-out death she was bound for. But then she could go to Megan's bar, and Megan could always tell and would put together a scotch whiskey bitter for her and force her to talk about it, drawing the words out of her in a manner that was simultaneously shy and too forceful to deny.

Remy had forgotten what it was like to have a friend, but she had found an unusual but constantly strengthening one in Megan. A quiet agreement had formed between them, where Megan was allowed to shake her head imperceptibly and give Remy a stern look when the doctor was in the midst of an unsavory pickup, and Remy was allowed to babysit Megan when her own sadness became overwhelming and she need an injection to let her forget. Twice now, Remy had spent a sleepless night in Megan's apartment, sterilizing needles before Megan used them and sitting in the easy chair in Megan's bedroom as she kept a sharp eye on her drugged friend, the redhead relaxing into her high and eventually falling asleep; Remy would spread a blanket over her and monitor her vitals and fret silently until she would reluctantly shake Megan awake in the morning when she had to leave for work. Twice she had stumbled into work, with circles under her eyes, to snarky comments from House and annoyance from Foreman, probing questions from Kutner and glares from Cuddy, and weathered every comment and glance stoically.

The quiet hum of the refrigerator was comforting, the stainless steel warm against her back. Remy let her eyes slide shut as she considered the business card in her hand. Last night, she had left work in a cheerful mood, a case solved and a patient recovering; she had gone straight to see Megan on the redhead's night off, feeling that her good mood and the weekend ahead of her was a sign that they should go to a concert; she had arrived at Megan's apartment to find her curled up in a ball on the couch, makeup streaked with tearstains and a small bag of heroin sitting despondently on the table in front of her. Remy had felt her good mood evaporate in an instant as she knelt in front of her friend and tried halfheartedly to talk her out of using the drugs, even though she knew she had little right to even try, given her past. She had been as successful as she had been the first time they spoke about it, and once more found herself pacing back in forth in Megan's living room while her friend injected heroin between her toes.

Opening her eyes slowly, Remy turned the card over in her hand, turning it from back to front and back again, considering the phone number etched into it. A part of her desperately wanted to call Megan and see how she was, but she had learned the hard way that Megan was insistent on having her space after a breakdown. She tamped down on the instinct and pushed herself away from the fridge. Picking up her phone from the counter, she hesitated, and then dialed out the number on the card.

An hour later, Remy was in her car, heading into New York to have a late lunch with Spencer. She had caved in as she left and called Megan, who had answered on the last possible ring, sounding tired but less sad; the redhead had made an unexpectedly sly comment about Remy's "date" and told her to have fun. Remy had resisted the urge to roll her eyes and stick out her tongue at Megan—not because it was immature, but simply because Megan couldn't see her—and told her that she'd be back after dinner and would come by the bar.

"Yeah, I'm sure you'll be back tonight," Megan said, quietly sarcastic as always, and this time Remy actually had rolled her eyes.

"I'm hanging up now," she said. She knew that she sounded far more cheerful than offended, and didn't care. Briefly, she considered what her colleagues would say if they saw this side of her.

"Use protection," Megan said. Her soft smile was somehow evident even over the phone.

Two hours after that, Remy sat in a small restaurant in Chelsea, in the midst of a strangely comfortable conversation with Spencer over a shared pizza and a glass of red wine. She listened amicably as Spencer told her about her job, and responded in kind, providing plenty of entertaining renditions of House badgering Foreman and bating Cuddy.

As they waited for dessert to make it to the table, a silence that was only halfway as awkward as Remy would have expected fell over them. Remy fiddled with the stem of her empty wine glass, staring at it in a carefully casual manner and glancing up at Spencer through her eyelashes; the other woman was sitting back in her chair, arms and legs crossed casually as she fixed an appraising stare on Remy.

"So," Spencer finally said, pausing as their desserts were placed on the table. "I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that since you're here with me now, you probably tried to patch things up with your friend." She paused once more, leaning forward and resting her chin in her hand. Remy felt a slight rush of heat in her cheeks and bit the inside of her cheek. She wasn't sure how she liked having gone from no friends to two who could more or less read her mind.

"Yeah," she said finally. "You might say that."

"And what else might you say?"

Remy shrugged, tracing the tines of her fork along the edge of the tiramisu in front of her. She was torn between bursting out happily that finally something in her life felt okay—maybe not great, maybe not even good, but okay, which was so much more than she'd had a year ago—and foolishly holding onto it alone, a part of her convinced that if she spoke of it, everything would fall apart.

The former won out, and she couldn't keep herself from glancing up at Spencer with an uncharacteristically shy smile on her lips. A slow grin appeared on Spencer's face.

"Good," she said. "I'm glad you worked it out."

"Me too," Remy mumbled, inexplicably but sufficiently embarrassed; she focused her attention on the plate in front of her, studiously cutting off a perfectly rectangular piece to eat.

"So are things back to normal?"

"Yes and no," Remy said slowly. She sighed, slumping back into her chair. "She's still using."

"You can't get her to stop?"

"I don't have any right to," Remy said. She swallowed the self-disgust that rose in her throat at the words. "It's not like I have a leg to stand on when it comes to doing stupid shit."

"Doesn't mean you can't try," Spencer reasoned. "It doesn't matter what you have or haven't done, really. She's your friend, and she's hurting herself, and you care about her. It makes sense that you'd try to help."

"I watch out for her when she's high," Remy said slowly. She wasn't sure if she was justifying her inaction or disparaging it. "I get her clean needles, I take care of her."

Spencer shrugged. "Yeah, it could be worse, I guess. But the fact that it isn't doesn't mean that it's good, either."

"Yeah," Remy muttered. The tiramisu lay abandoned in front of them. Her appetite had disappeared; she found herself wishing desperately for another glass of wine.

Spencer sighed. "Look," she said. "I may be out of line and it may not be my business, but from what I've seen, you've got this really dumb habit of assuming that you can't do things. You thought you couldn't deal with being around me when I was in the hospital, but you did. You thought you couldn't patch things up with Megan, and you did. I'd even guess that you thought, after your diagnosis, that you couldn't manage friends anymore, but here you are anyways.

"Your lack of confidence is kind of cute," she continued. She smirked at the eyebrow Remy raised at her. "Not that it's the only thing." Her eyes slipped momentarily up and down Remy's form; a small thrill of excitement pulsed in Remy's chest.

"But the point is," Spencer continued, her eyes once more locked on Remy's, expression as serious as it had been moments earlier, as if she hadn't just blatantly been checking Remy out. "It's also kind of annoying. You're clearly capable of plenty of the things you need to do, but you convince yourself that you're not. And frankly," she added. "You need to get over it."

"Get over it," Remy repeated flatly. The excitement she had felt didn't disappear, as she might have thought, with Spencer's comment; rather, it mellowed to a quiet hum throughout her body. She couldn't remember the last time someone had managed to elicit such a reaction from her, in her body or in her heart.

"Get over it," Spencer said, nodding in confirmation. She nodded at the waiter when he brought the check over, snatching it up before Remy could get a hand on it. "Shut up," Spencer said kindly when Remy opened her mouth to protest.

As Spencer went up front to settle the bill, Remy slowly pushed herself to her feet, shrugging into her coat. She felt young and shy, like a ninth grader on a first date. She wasn't used to feeling so unsure; even the dates she had gone on as a kid had come and gone simply and easily. Without meaning to, she reached into her coat pocket for her phone, thumb hovering over the redial button that would call up Megan so she could ask for advice; she stopped herself just before pressing send, scolding herself for such thinking.

"Ready?" Spencer said as she slid into her own coat.

"Yep," Remy said. Pleasantly enough, the confidence in her voice didn't sound nearly as forced as it actually was.

They walked in silence, wrapped tightly in coats against the early edges of winter. Remy restrained herself from glancing over at Spencer constantly, instead forcing herself to focus on the steady rhythm of her steps. Her childhood habit of counting steps reappeared, and she made it up to almost three hundred steps in surprisingly comfortable silence when Spencer slowed to a stop next to her. Remy looked up questioningly, and Spencer smiled, half-indulgent and half-mocking.

"My building," she said, gesturing to the doors behind her.

"Oh," Remy said stupidly. She glanced around, searching for street signs to get her bearings, or a taxi that could get her to her car. The residential street was quiet and empty, except for them; Remy marveled at the utter lack of city sounds that she had always associated with even the neighborhoods of New York City.

"You want a drink?" Spencer offered.

Remy hesitated momentarily before nodding. "Sure."

Spencer lived on the twelfth floor. Remy was jealous of her apartment, which put even her own to shame; apparently, either being a marketing consultant was unfairly lucrative, or Spencer was just extremely good at it. She watched as Spencer tossed her coat and keys over the back of the sofa, kicking her shoes off and down the hallway, and assumed that it was probably the latter. Marketing, after all, was just psychology, and Spencer had proven to be unnervingly good at that.

Spencer handed her a beer, a bottle of her own in her hands. "Cheers," she said, raising her beer in a salute to Remy.

"Thanks." Remy took a slow drink, leaning against the doorjamb at the entrance to the kitchen and setting her purse down on the counter beside her. Spencer stood a few feet away, impossibly casual in her jeans and bare feet, one hand in her pocket and the other wrapped loosely around the beer bottle.

After a full thirty seconds of awkward silence, of which Remy could not think of a single thing to say, Spencer stepped forward and took the beer bottle out of her hand, setting both down on the counter. Remy's breath caught in her throat as Spencer stood silently in front of her, meeting her eyes calmly and quietly. With her shoes off, she was exactly the same height as Remy in her heels, their eyes dead level with barely a foot separating them. Her brand of soft-spoken was entirely opposite of Megan's, reeking of comfort and confidence and something irresistibly playful. Remy wondered absently if the playfulness was new, or if it had just been overwhelmed their first time by sickness and alcohol and uncertainty.

A handful of seconds ticked past, and Remy was far from surprised when Spencer stepped in the last bit and kissed her; it was familiar and comfortable and the feel of Spencer's lips sliding across hers somehow didn't bring back a single memory of their first encounter. What did surprise her was that she didn't hesitate to return the kiss. More seconds slipped by, but she wasn't counting; her focus was limited to Spencer's lips against hers, Spencer's fingers trailing lightly against her jaw, Spencer's weight pressing her against the wall.

When Spencer finally leaned back, breaking the kiss, Remy couldn't keep a soft "Damn" from slipping out of her mouth. She opened her eyes slowly, holding Spencer's gaze, and offered a playful smile. "I know that that just blew your seven out of the water."

Spencer smirked at her. "Yeah, pretty much," she said. She leaned forward once more, kissing Remy again; Remy let herself fall into the kiss, her hands finding Spencer's hips and pulling her closer. When Spencer pulled back for the second time, Remy pushed forward, fingers tightening on her hips and an almost-silent sound of protest bubbling in the back of her throat. She leaned in and kissed Spencer again, a fleeting feeling of triumph fluttering in her chest when Spencer couldn't seem to resist.

It wasn't until Remy's thumb brushed under the cotton on Spencer's shirt, skimming up from her hipbone to her ribs, that the other woman pulled away, her own hand moving to halt Remy's. "Wait," she breathed.

"For what?" Remy mumbled impatiently. Undeterred, she moved her lips to Spencer's neck. She groaned in annoyance when Spencer stepped back.

"Wait a minute," she said again.

Sighing, Remy crossed her arms in an effort to keep her hands to herself. She felt roughly eleven seconds away from jumping Spencer and knocking that seven off record once and for all.

"What for?" she repeated.

"Well," Spencer said with a smirk. "I'm trying to ask you out, but that doesn't work very well when I can't form a coherent thought."

Remy matched Spencer's smirk with a cocky one of her own. "Coherent thought, huh?"

Spencer chuckled. "Don't let it go to your head," she warned.

"You tell me you're going to ask me out and think that a comment about my kissing is going to go to my head?"

"I know that a comment about your kissing already _went_ to your head," Spencer shot back. "But hey, far be it from me to take anything away from your abilities. They're top-notch."

"So, we're waiting for… what?" Remy drawled.

"Not tonight," Spencer said. She took a step back, her hands slipping into her pockets.

Remy's brow furrowed. "Oh?"

"No," Spencer said. "Like I said, I'm trying to ask you out." She offered a small smile. "Dr. Hadley, would you like to go out to dinner with me sometime?"

Remy couldn't stop the shy smile that she was so unaccustomed to from spreading across her lips; she wasn't sure if she wanted to anyways. She couldn't think of a single time in her life when someone had so often drawn out such shyness.

"I can't remember the last time someone asked me out on a date," she said without meaning to, her voice only a breath above a whisper.

Spencer shook her head. "Don't think about it that way," she said. "Just think about the fact that I'm asking you out on a date now." She cocked her head to one side. "So, what do you say?"

Remy felt her smile widen the slightest bit. "Yeah," she said. "I'd like to go out with you sometime."

Spencer smiled, not moving from where she stood—just out of arm's reach, irresistibly casual in bare feet and bright eyes. "Glad to hear it," she said. She moved forward, smirking teasingly at Remy as she bypassed reaching hands and instead simply picked up her beer bottle from the counter to Remy's right.

"Tease," Remy mumbled. She halfheartedly attempted to glare at Spencer, but could only manage what she imagined was something between a glower and a pout. Her fingers itched to grasp and touch and _feel_; she hooked her thumbs in her suspenders and her fingers half into her pants pockets to keep them from reaching unwillingly for Spencer.

After a short-lived staring contest—which she lost miserably—Remy sighed and glanced at the flashing clock numbers on Spencer's microwave. If she was going to stop by and see Megan before last call, she needed to get on the road.

"You need to leave," Spencer said. Her tone hovered between knowing and questioning, and Remy raised one shoulder in a shrug, but nodded nonetheless.

"Yeah," she said, half rueful and half quietly pleased. "I told Megan I'd stop by the bar tonight."

"Probably a good idea," Spencer said with a nod. The gentle tone in her voice that had been unavoidable every time they spoke of Remy and Huntington's and Megan and awkwardness was back, as Spencer's demeanor slid from enticing to supportive effortlessly. She set her still half-full beer down on the counter slowly, shaking her hair out of her eyes.

"So," Remy said quickly, desperate to take at least a little initiative where Spencer had dominated thus far. "What did you have in mind for this date?"

"Well," Spencer said slowly. Just as easily as seconds earlier, her demeanor shifted again, a shine in her eyes and a playful smile on her lips. "I was thinking of something along the lines of dinner and a show."

"What kind of show?" Remy stepped forward, moving almost cautiously, half convinced that Spencer would step back every time she moved closer; a tiny bit of triumph warmed in her chest with each step closer she got.

"Something funny, probably," Spencer said. Her voice was dropping as Remy inched closer, eyes hooded; she remained unmoving, hands in her pockets, allowing Remy to retake some control. "Any preferences?"

"As long as it's not one of those weird artsy things that I'll never understand, I'm good," Remy said, her voice low. She stood almost flush against Spencer. She leaned forward the slightest bit, brushing a soft kiss against Spencer's jaw; eyes open, she watched as Spencer's fluttered shut. "Time frame?" she asked, lips still against Spencer's skin.

"I have to go to Seattle this week," Spencer half-whispered. "I get back Thursday night. So…Friday?"

"Friday," Remy said thoughtfully. She ran through her schedule, trying to remember if she was on call that night. "Friday is perfect," she said. Unhooking one hand from her suspenders, she pressed her fingertips and palm lightly against Spencer's cheek and kissed her one last time.

"Sounds great," Spencer breathed out. "I'll call you when I get back into town."

"Good," Remy said. With a smile that felt more honest than she intended, she kissed Spencer's cheek and stepped back, picking up her coat from the chair she had tossed it over. Slipping into it slowly, she kept her eyes locked on Spencer. "What's in Seattle?"

"Rain," Spencer muttered disgustedly. "And fog."

Remy chuckled. She buttoned her coat up slowly. "Not a fan?"

"Not remotely," Spencer said. She picked up her beer, taking another sip. "But there's also a client, and they pay big money, so off I go to the land of rain and perpetual depression."

"Sounds fun," Remy said. "By which I mean, sounds like a pain in the ass. Sometimes my job sucks, but at least it sucks in the same state."

"Don't rub it in," Spencer said, leveling a mild glare at Remy. "But hey, upside: lots of fly miles. A few more cross-countries like this and I can fly off to Australia in first class, for free."

"Uh huh," Remy drawled. Her coat buttoned, she picked up her purse, fighting the urge to fidget. "Well," she said after a moment, praying that she didn't actually sound as awkward as she thought she did. "Have a safe trip."

"That's the idea," Spencer said. She walked Remy to the front door, opening it slowly. "I'll do my best to find a funny, non-artsy weird show."

"Good." Remy stood in the doorway, thinking about the cold car and long drive awaiting her, and considered how unwise it would be to push Spencer back into the apartment and not leave until sometime before Monday morning.

"Take care, Remy," Spencer said, her smile as quiet as her voice.

"Thanks," Remy said. "For dinner, and the drink, and… well, thank you." She met Spencer's eyes squarely, determined to ignore the blush she knew was reddening her cheeks.

"Anytime," Spencer said. Her smile widened. "It was my pleasure." One hand still in her pocket, the other gripping the doorknob, she leaned forward and kissed Remy, pulling back before either of them fell too far into it. "Night, Remy," she said with a smile.

"Good night," Remy said. She stepped backwards into the hallway and watched as Spencer offered her a final encouraging smile before disappearing behind the closing door.

After a long few seconds of standing in the hallway, Remy uprooted her feet and made her way out of the building. The fatigue she was so used to feeling was fading, replaced with something that one could almost classify as a euphoria wrapped in Spencer's lips and charm and smirks and the thought that she was leaving Spencer's to go see her friend and how it felt to be this excited about any part of her life again.

Once she made it back to her car and had tipped the cabbie outrageously well, she pulled her phone out and hit the redial button. As she pulled out of the parking lot and waited for Megan to answer her phone, she smiled quietly to herself.


	9. Thirty

The thirtieth time Remy saw Megan, it was the weekend before Thanksgiving and Remy was at the bar to see her friend briefly before heading into the city for what probably qualified as a third date with Spencer. Megan was in a good mood, a smile in her eyes and a lightness to her step, and Remy was halfway to a panic attack because she couldn't remember the last time she had a third date with anyone, much less someone as intriguing as Spencer.

"Calm down," Megan said, smirking as she mixed a drink for another customer. "You're being stupid. People freak out about first dates, not third dates."

"Probably because most people have had a third date in this decade," Remy muttered. She paused, turning the statement over in her head, and then sighed frustratedly. "Christ, I feel old," she added, dropping her forehead into her hands.

Megan laughed. She prodded Remy's shoulder until the brunette sat up straight and met her eyes; clear grey was filled with laughter at Remy's dilemma. "Calm down," she repeated. "There's no reason for you to work yourself up about this, and you know it. I mean, come on. The girl already knows all your dirty little secrets, you've already slept with her once, and she still wants to go out with you. Clearly she sees _something_ she likes."

Remy mumbled something incoherently into her palm; she wasn't even sure what it was, but settled for telling herself that it would have been extremely clever, had it been audible. Megan rolled her eyes.

"Shut up," the bartender said. "You know perfectly well that things will go fine. Hey, she might even let you get past second tonight, you never know." She paused. "Let's hope so. Maybe some sex would calm you down. You're never uptight like this when you've been getting laid."

Remy couldn't keep herself from snorting at that, a grin threatening her lips. Megan smiled in quiet triumph and busied herself with pouring a pitcher of Corona.

"Your concern for my emotional welfare is touching," Remy said sardonically.

"I'm a charmer," Megan said. "What can I say?" She smiled at Remy as she disappeared down the bar to hand off the pitcher. Remy watched, a small smile on her lips, as the redhead handed the pitcher to a crowd of fraternity boys and blushed as they all seemed to try to hit on her simultaneously. Her anxiety about the upcoming evening with Spencer faded slightly into the background as she watched her friend.

A man and a woman walked up to the bar; he cleared his throat, capturing Remy's attention, and motioned to the seat to her left. Remy murmured an apology, clearing her coat and purse off of the chair; they both nodded at her as they took their seats, silent and awkwardly solemn. As Remy diverted her attention back in the other direction, she saw Megan disappear into the back with an empty bottle of Ketel One.

Taking a deep breath, Remy braced her hands on the bar and pushed herself to her feet. Slowly, she tugged her coat on and wound her scarf around her neck. She ignored the dull ache of nerves in her stomach, focusing the majority of her attention on peering at her reflection in the mirror behind the bar as she checked her hair. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Megan appearing from the storeroom, a replacement bottle of vodka in her hands.

"So," Megan said, pausing in front of Remy as she cracked the wrapper around the lid of the bottle. "Finally going to get going?"

"Yep," Remy said. She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and glanced at Megan in what she hoped was a confident manner.

"You look like you're going to puke," Megan said mildly. She smiled slightly at Remy stuck-out tongue, storing the bottle with its counterparts below the bar. "Have fun," she said, a serious note in her voice. "You'll be fine."

"Thanks," Remy murmured. It really was a little ridiculous to be so worked up over a third date, she reasoned. "We still on for that concert tomorrow night?"

"Yeah," Megan said. "I'll drive this time. Nine?"

"Nine," Remy confirmed. She smiled and waved. "See you then. Have a good night."

"You, too," Megan said softly. "Take care."

The man who had taken the seat next to Remy cleared his throat, capturing Megan's attention. As Remy turned to leave, she jerked to a stop when she saw Megan's alabaster skin go paper white under her freckles, her greeting to the patron dying on her lips as she froze with wide eyes and a hanging mouth.

Unaware that Remy was standing frozen in her path to the doorway and listening in, the man coughed awkwardly and stood, hands resting on the bar. "Megan," he said. His voice was hoarse, his tone unnervingly bland. "You're looking well."

Megan remained silent and slack-jawed. Remy felt an uncomfortable feeling settle in her stomach, far worse than the nerves she'd been fretting over for her date, at the painfully familiar set of Megan's shoulders, identical to when she'd first come to Remy's apartment to settle things between them. Unconsciously, Remy shifted her weight, as if poising herself to jump into a fight that was about to break out, to jump in front of a punch thrown at her friend.

"What… what are you doing here?" Megan managed to squeak out. The uncomfortable feeling in Remy's stomach intensified at the unadulterated fear in her friend's voice, the unavoidable tremors in her hands that shook the bottle of vodka, Ketel One sloshing tumultuously inside the glass.

"I've been looking for you," he said. "For years. You did a good job of disappearing."

Megan's mouth opened and closed several times, seemingly unable to form articulate words. The doctor in Remy worried over the unhealthily grey tinge in her cheeks, the uncontrollable shaking of her hands, the way she was starting to sway minutely on the spot. Before she could stop herself, she moved back to the bar, beside the troublesome man and woman, leaning over towards Megan.

"Hey," she said, soft but sharp. "Megan, look at me."

The redhead refused to meet her gaze, eyes wide and head shaking as she bit down on her lip. "No," she whispered. "Not… no, I have to go. I have to go." She dropped the bottle, thankfully still capped, onto the counter in front of her and bolted, shoving past the other bartender on her way into the back room.

"Shit," Remy muttered. Ignoring the angry protests of the hoarse man, she shoved past them and all but sprinted around the end of the bar. Sending up a thankful prayer that Danny, the other bartender, knew her well enough not to flip at the sight of her behind the bar, she nodded brusquely at him as she chased after Megan.

In the poorly-lit quiet of the store rooms, insulated from the sounds of the bar, she found Megan fumbling with her coat and purse, trembling hands pawing through the pockets.

"Megan," Remy said sharply. "Hey, Megan, listen to me for a minute, will you?" She chanced moving closer, grabbing at Megan's wrists to stop her frantic searching; Megan responded violently, shoving Remy away, an elbow catching her in the stomach and pushing the air out of her lungs.

"I have to go, I have to go, I have to go," Megan muttered endlessly. She didn't even seem to notice that Remy was there as she located her car keys and ran unsteadily out of the room, past the wheezing doctor.

Trying desperately to keep herself from panicking as her lungs refused to inflate, Remy shoved her hand into her purse, finding her inhaler and yanking it out. Two quick puffs and she inhaled greedily, stubbornly not thinking about the fact that Megan had just pushed her violently into a wall.

Inhaler still clutched in her hand, she ran after Megan, bursting out into the cold air on the corner of the sidewalk just in time to see Megan's car disappearing down the long block in the direction of her apartment. Swearing under her breath, cursing the fact that she was parked half a block away, Remy sprinted to her own car and drove as fast as she dared to Megan's apartment, praying that her friend would make it there in one piece. She breathed a sigh of relief as she clumsily parked next to Megan's own crookedly-situated but unscathed car.

It was only on the elevator ride up to Megan's floor that she remembered that she was supposed to be on her way to New York; she typed out a text message in six seconds and prayed that Spencer could make sense of it, before hurrying down the hallway to where Megan's front door hung open.

"Oh, Christ," she muttered when she stepped into the apartment to see Megan curled up on the couch, still trembling, a needle hanging from the crook of her arm and blood staining her shirt. Three other spent needles lay scattered on the floor and coffee table in front of her.

Remy dropped to her knees in front of Megan, grabbing her wrist and pulling the needle out of her arm as gently as possible. She pressed a hand over the drops of blood leaking out of the injection site, her heart skipping a beat painfully when Megan's head lolled back lifelessly against the couch, her skin hot to the touch and eyes half-lidded.

"Megan, come on," Remy said weakly. She clambered up onto the couch next to Megan, pulling her friend against her and supporting her head; she could hardly tell where Megan's tremors ended and her own fear-borne shaking began. Fumbling clumsily, she scrabbled for her phone, punching in 911 and swearing under her breath as Megan's breaths started to slow down, her eyes drifting shut the rest of the way.

"Yeah, I need an ambulance," she said hurriedly into the phone, rattling off Megan's address. "26 year old white female, opiate overdose." She paused. "Send her to Princeton-Plainsboro."

Dropping the phone from numb fingers at the end of the call, Remy wrapped her arm tightly around Megan's shoulders, her other hand pressed against the heated skin of the redhead's forehead, pushing damp hair out of her face. "Come on, come on," she muttered, willing the ambulance to appear. Holding onto Megan tightly, praying to any god she could think of, Remy squeezed her eyes shut to ward off tears, and waited.


	10. Spencer III

A/N: So, courtesy of crazy airline drama, leaving a full 26 hours late, and there being free wireless in the airport... have an update. Because cliffhangers make me feel guilty.

* * *

Twelve hours after Remy had sent a frenzied text message from the elevator in Megan's building, Spencer knocked cautiously on the door to Megan's room at the hospital. Remy looked up from where she sat tiredly at Megan's bedside, chin propped in her hands in an effort to keep her head up.

"Hey," Spencer said softly. Her eyes flitted over Megan's sedated form, alabaster skin with a grayish tinge and fluids pumping into her right arm, her left covered in bandages to manage the veins the redhead had burst with her injections. "How is she?"

Remy exhaled slowly, slumping back in the uncomfortable chair and pushing her hair back. "She'll live," she said eventually. Her voice was raspy from disuse; she glanced at the clock, surprised at how long she had been sitting anxiously at Megan's side. "Quick response helped. We got her to the hospital in time and—" Remy paused, biting her lip. "We managed to get naltrexone into her system before too much damage was done."

She paused, looking up at Spencer sadly. "I don't know about much beyond that. It limits the damage, but causes immediate withdrawal symptoms. We had to sedate her heavily."

Spencer nodded imperceptibly. She moved further into the room, stepping quietly to stand at Remy's side. They both stared at Megan's still form silently; Remy unconsciously leaned to the side, resting her temple against Spencer's hip. Spencer's hand moved to stroke her hair, and Remy felt her eyes drift shut slowly. She hadn't slept in over a day, having been unable to calm her mind enough to rest the whole time she was at the hospital. The rhythmic motion of Spencer's fingers sliding through her hair was entrancing, lulling her towards sleep.

The almost-peaceful sensation Remy felt creeping into her consciousness was broken when the door opened again and a nurse walked in to check Megan's IV.

"Dr. Hadley," the nurse said in surprise, stopping short of Megan's bed. "I didn't know you were in here. Is this one of your patients? I didn't know House had a case." She flipped through the clipboard in her hands, brow furrowed.

"No," Remy said hoarsely. Spencer's hand stilled momentarily, before sliding down to rest softly on Remy's shoulder. "She's not a diagnostics case."

"Oh," the nurse said. "I see." She offered a small smile to Remy, briskly checking Megan's IV and vital signs. "Let me know if you need anything, Dr. Hadley."

"Thanks, Laura," Remy said. She forced a smile for the nurse, who nodded once and made her way out of the room.

Remy sighed, slumping sideways against Spencer. Exhaustion, not unlike the fatigue that had plagued her in the weeks she and Megan weren't speaking, weighted her shoulders and eyelids. The sleep that had threatened the edges of her consciousness for hours battled against the guilt that was slowly, so slowly, building in her chest.

"I should have been there," she whispered. "I should have been there to stop her."

Spencer shifted away from her, moving to stand in front of the chair she sat in; Remy caught herself before her ribcage hit the arm of the chair, but only barely. "Remy," Spencer said, her voice quiet but firm. She knelt in front of Remy, hands on the doctor's knees. "Look at me. This isn't your fault."

"I knew she would shoot up," Remy said. Something that sounded like disgust dripped from her words. She couldn't force herself to meet Spencer's eyes. "As soon as I saw her freak out, I knew what she'd do. I should have been faster. I should have stopped her from leaving, or gotten there sooner. I _knew_, and I didn't stop it."

"You're kidding, right?" Spencer said dryly. "Remy, you did more than enough. She probably would have died if you hadn't followed her like you did. You got her here almost immediately." She smiled quietly at Remy, reaching up to grip her cold hands comfortingly. "You pretty much saved her life."

Remy scoffed, her chin falling forward to her chest. "I should have been there," she mumbled. She slumped forward tiredly. Her spine curved, her head drooping slowly, until her forehead rested on Spencer's shoulder. Her shoulders trembled silently as she fought to keep herself from crying; Spencer's hands on her back were all that kept her grounded.

Remy couldn't tell how much time had passed when she heard the door slide open again. She sat up slowly, shaking her hair out of her face, and felt like her stomach had turned to lead when she saw House standing in the doorway, head cocked to one side, staring at her impassively.

Spencer rose to her feet slowly, one hand staying on Remy's shoulder as she moved behind the doctor's chair. House remained silent, his eyes flicking back and forth between the two of them, and Spencer's hand on Remy's shoulder, and Megan's unconscious body.

"I'm a little intrigued," he said, speaking slowly. "As to how you conned Cameron into using naltrexone. I seem to remember her being quite against helping addicts cheat their way out of withdrawal." He picked up Megan's chart from where it hung at the foot of her bed, glancing over it flippantly before tossing it onto the bed and turning his eyes to Spencer.

"Can't say I expected to see you here again," he said conversationally. "She's not normally into sloppy seconds. Too hard to keep that emotional distance when everyone's sober the morning after."

Remy felt numbly like she should defend herself, but the effort involved in doing so seemed like so much more than she could handle. She remained silent and still, her eyes locked on a spot on the blanket that covered Megan's slender form.

"Of course, I clearly don't know what I'm talking about," House went on. "Since I also thought that she'd managed to get herself in line and away from all of _this_ crap." He gestured to Megan and the bandages covering her track marks, the naltrexone in her IV, the breathing tube in her mouth. "Clearly I'm about as clued in to the sanity of my employees as Brett Favre is to the concept of real retirement."

"I'd say that pretty much covers it," Spencer said sharply. Her hand was tight on Remy's shoulder. "You may be a genius, but that doesn't mean you have a clue about what happened."

"Please, Ellen," he said, rolling his eyes. "Don't get your panties in a twist because Portia was getting her rocks off with a needle and a piece on the side. It's not you, don't you know? It's her being an idiot with a bad diagnosis." He sneered, in the way that only House could manage to do. "Too bad she couldn't have found a smarter plaything. Maybe it wouldn't have all blown up if she was with someone who knew how to manage her fun."

Without realizing she was doing so, without thinking about it, without noticing for a moment how quickly her rage had trumped her exhaustion, Remy flew out of her chair and slammed her fist into House's jaw. He staggered back, the back of his head cracking against the glass of the door before he slid to the floor.

"You son of a bitch," Remy breathed out, too filled with anger to speak above a whisper. Her hands shook, her entire body trembling. "You don't know the first _thing_ about _any_ of this." She felt Spencer's hands on her body, gripping at her arms and waist to hold her back.

A handful of nurses exploded into the room, all coming to a quick halt at the sight of House on the ground with blood in his teeth and Remy being held back by Spencer, the knuckles on her right hand raw and bleeding.

"What the _hell_ is going on here?" Cuddy appeared, scattering the nurses with a well-aimed glare. "Dr. Hadley," she said darkly. "My office. Now."

"It's not her fault," Spencer said, letting go of Remy and stepping around her. "He was—"

"Quiet," Cuddy said, her voice deadly calm. "I don't know who you are, but this is my hospital and these are my employees. I will deal with them as I see fit." She turned her glare back at Remy and House, who had finally pulled himself to his feet. He dabbed at his bleeding mouth, staining the cuff of his shirt.

"Both of you," Cuddy snapped. "My office. Let's go."

Remy felt her rage dissipate slowly, deflating her almost painfully; the ache in her right hand was suddenly all that she could feel. She started after House and Cuddy, pausing only when she felt Spencer's fingers wrap around her wrist.

"Hey," Spencer said softly. She tugged on Remy's wrist, pulling her back around and sliding a hand under her chin. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Remy said, her voice dull. "He needed to be punched."

"No arguments there," Spencer muttered. She cracked a small smile. "I'll wait for you here, okay?"

"Okay," Remy said. She hated how childish she sounded. He shoulders slumped tiredly. Spencer tilted Remy's chin up and kissed her gently. "Thanks," Remy mumbled. She forced what she could of a smile before turning and half-jogging down the hallway to catch up with Cuddy.

In Cuddy's office, House spoke first. "I'm pretty sure that she deserves a time-out," he said. "Look, she made me bleed!"

"Shut up, House," Cuddy said tiredly. She crossed her arms over her chest, locking her gaze on Remy's withdrawn form. "Dr. Hadley, what's going on out there?"

Remy shrugged. "He insulted my friend. I punched him. Pretty straightforward."

Cuddy sighed, rubbing one hand over her eyes. "Look, I completely understand wanting to punch House." She ignored House's indignant "Hey!", keeping her eyes locked on Remy. "But as annoying as he is, I can't have you punching him every time he says something insulting."

"Or ever," House chimed in. "And you totally don't get to punch someone for telling the truth. I'm pretty sure it's in the Bible somewhere."

Remy reacted again without thinking, lunging across the space separating them; only Cuddy diving between the two of them and shoving her back stopped her from hitting House with another right hook.

"Hey!" Cuddy yelled. "Do you _want_ me to have to suspend you?" She gripped Remy's shoulders, shaking her slightly. "Calm the hell down."

"Seriously," House muttered from behind her.

"House," Cuddy said, whirling around. "Get out."

"I get to leave?" He grinned. "Sweet."

"Clinic duty," Cuddy said pointedly. "You earned yourself another thirty hours this month. Go get started."

"Are you _kidding_? She goes all Mike Tyson and I get clinic duty?"

"Now," Cuddy said venomously. "Go."

Remy watched, impressed in spite of herself, as House seemed to fold like a child, though his eyes remained stubbornly defiant as he hobbled out of the office. Cuddy turned back to Remy, surveying her thoughtfully.

"Have a seat," she said eventually. She pushed a chair out slightly, making her way around the desk to her own chair. Remy collapsed into the chair gratefully. "Now, tell me what's going on."

Remy sighed. She pushed her hair back to buy some time, staring at a minute scratch in the wood scrolling on Cuddy's desk.

"Dr. Hadley," Cuddy said after a few seconds. "I know that your friend is in a…precarious situation." She paused. "But I need to know what the hell just happened. What did he do?"

Remy shrugged. "He said that she was my piece of ass on the side and a shooting buddy, and that if I'd picked a smarter one I could have carried on my façade longer." Even reciting the words made her cheeks flush; her hands clenched together atop her thighs angrily.

Cuddy looked at her levelly, one eyebrow raising slowly. "Well," she said. "Is she?"

"No," Remy snapped. "She's my friend. I know that it must be terribly shocking for you all to realize that an emotional screw-up like myself has friends, but I do."

"That's not what I meant," Cuddy said softly. "I didn't mean to imply that at all. I apologize."

For a brief moment, Remy suddenly understood a little of why Lisa Cuddy had so much devotion from the majority of her staff.

"He was out of line," Cuddy went on. "As always. But however uncouth his methods may be, it's his way of watching out for both his department and his employee. He doesn't want a doctor working for him who he thinks he can't trust medically, and he doesn't want you back on that spiral you were on last fall."

"I'm sure," Remy muttered sullenly.

"I'm not defending his actions," Cuddy said. "Trust me, I think it was probably great for him to finally get punched in the face." She smiled a little crookedly at Remy. "But I can't officially condone such things. I can't have doctors going around punching House in the face every time he's an ass. We'd have a line out to the street and nothing would ever get done."

Remy snorted tiredly. Cuddy's statement was too true to do anything but laugh at.

"I think you know what I'm going to ask next," Cuddy said after a long moment's silence. She held Remy's gaze, until the younger woman sighed and looked away.

"The naltrexone."

"Yes," Cuddy said simply. "That's a very dangerous treatment, as I'm sure you know. And we only use it in extreme situations. I do _not _want this hospital gaining a reputation of giving a medical cure for withdrawal for every addict or overdose brought into the ER."

"She's not an addict," Remy said defensively. "She's… broken. She's hurt. She uses to manage the pain, but I've known her for months while she's been using. She doesn't use regularly—she sometimes goes weeks without it—and I've never seen a single withdrawal symptom."

"Then why did she shoot four times the normal dose for someone her size into her arm?"

"Because she…" Remy trailed off, thinking back to the night before, the man and woman in the bar. "I don't really know," she said slowly. "Something happened with someone at the bar she works at, someone she knew. She flipped out and panicked and ran home to shoot up."

"Be that as it may," Cuddy said. "She's going to wake up from this coma we put her into without any withdrawal symptoms. She's going to have the easy way out of whatever withdrawal she may have faced, and it's going to be on your head to make sure she doesn't get any. You brought her in here and you somehow convinced Cameron that the naltrexone treatment was necessary, so if she winds up back in here or in any hospital with another needle in her arm, you will be very, very deep in it. Understand?"

Remy stared at her, eyes wide and unblinking. "I…yes?" she said uncertainly. When Cameron had argued with her the night before, saying that the naltrexone treatment had only been used once at Princeton Plainsboro in the last decade, and then only under House's insistence, Remy had realized that there was a good chance that Cuddy would fire her for it, and she hadn't cared. She certainly hadn't expected that Cuddy—Cuddy, who had ordered a drug test from her, who had stalked Remy's every step since walking in on her rehydration in a clinic room, who had wanted so vehemently to fire her—would offer her any semblance of understanding or slack.

"Good," Cuddy said with a nod. "I'm going to give you some extra paid vacation days. Use them this week. Stay with you friend, and make sure she doesn't end up back here."

"Okay," Remy half-whispered. She pushed herself to her feet slowly, shuffling towards the door. Hand on the doorknob, she paused and looked back at Cuddy. "Thank you," she said softly.

"You're welcome," Cuddy said just as softly. Remy shuffled back to Megan's room in a daze, arms crossed protectively over her stomach.

House stood leaning against the wall a few rooms away from Megan's. "She didn't fire you," he observed. "Figures. If I punched you, I would've been fired."

"Back off," Remy said tiredly.

"Hey," House snapped. He slammed his right arm out, stretching it and his cane in front of Remy, blocking her path. "Get yourself together," he said. "You look like hell."

"Thanks," Remy said sarcastically. "I needed the pep talk."

"The pep talk will come from your girlfriend," House said, jerking his head towards Megan's room. "Or one of them, at least. That's not what I'm here for."

"She's my _friend_," Remy said, anger flaring in her throat again. "You should try finding one sometime."

"Whatever she is," House said. "Get yourself in line. If you let her put you back into that spiral, I _will_ fire you. And there won't be any more chances to come back."

"Fine," Remy muttered. "Noted. Don't stay out past curfew or I'm grounded. Now will you please get the hell out of my way, _Dad_?" She shoved at his arm, knocking it out of her way, and stalked away.

In Megan's room, Spencer sat in the same chair Remy had occupied earlier, a laptop open on her legs. "Hey," she said, looking up. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," Remy said absently. She picked up Megan's chart, scanning over it slowly. Unsurprisingly, nothing had changed.

"What happened with the boss?" Spencer asked. She shut her laptop, setting it down atop her bag on the floor.

Remy shrugged. "I…don't really know. I thought I was going to get fired. Again. But she let me off the hook. Gave me some time off to stay with Megan."

"Wow," Spencer said. "Wasn't she the one who wanted to fire you when I was here?"

"One and the same," Remy said. "I'm as confused as you."

"Well, don't look a gift horse in the mouth, right?" Spencer said. "Time off is always good."

"Yeah, I guess so. She'll need someone to look after her for a while." Remy's eyes stayed locked on Megan's form.

"Yeah, about that," Spencer said slowly. "What's the big deal about this medicine you gave her?"

Remy sighed, shaking her head. "Naltrexone. It's a partial inverse opioid antagonist."

"Yeah, don't know what that means," Spencer said, a lopsided smile on her lips.

"It's kind of like heroin, but not," Remy said haltingly. Her head felt fuzzy, the ability to translate from medical to laymen's vernacular far too difficult to grasp. "Heroin binds to these receptors in the brain and activates them, you know? Cues up all these endorphins. The antagonist binds to the same receptors, even better than the heroin, but it doesn't activate them. So it blocks up the receptors, which prevents your body from reacting to the heroin."

"So why is it bad?"

Remy sighed again. "It's a kind of frowned upon method. It causes immediate withdrawal symptoms, which can shock the body's systems enough to cause some serious damage, and is extremely painful. That's why we had to put her into the coma." She shook her hair out of her eyes. "The hospital doesn't like using it because it's not breaking an addiction, it's just walking around the discomforts that keep people from breaking that addiction. It's not uncommon for someone who's been treated with it to go right back to using again."

"Oh," Spencer said slowly. "Got it."

"Yeah," Remy said. She dropped down into the other chair in the room, resting her head in her hands. "Cuddy said that if Megan ends up back on the needle, I'm gone." She sighed when she felt Spencer's comforting hand on her shoulder. Pushing herself to sit up straight, she smiled sadly at the other woman.

"I'm sorry," Remy said quietly. "I never wanted to drag you into the crappy melodrama of my life."

"Don't worry about it," Spencer said. She waved Remy's apology off dismissively. "I'm the one who approached you the first time around, and I'm the one who showed up at your apartment door, and I'm the one who asked you out, right?" She nudged at Remy with her shoulder when she got no response, drawing a tiny smile out of Remy. "I actually kind of like you, as hard as I know that is for you to believe."

Remy half-laughed without meaning to. "Thanks," she said hoarsely. She leaned over, kissing Spencer softly. "Thank you," she whispered again, lips brushing against Spencer's.

"No problem," Spencer said, a small smirk playing across her lips. Remy took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, and let her head fall down to Spencer's shoulder. Her eyes fluttered shut at the feel of Spencer kissing her temple gently.

"When was the last time you slept?" she asked quietly.

"I dunno," Remy mumbled. "Night before last, I guess."

"You should get some rest," Spencer said. "Why don't you go home and sleep for a few hours?"

"No way," Remy said, not opening her eyes. She shifted in her seat, finding a more comfortable position to sit in as she leaned against Spencer; Spencer tilted her head, leaning it atop Remy's. "I need to stay here."

"No, you _need_ to sleep," Spencer said. "Look, is she likely to wake up before tonight?"

Remy opened her eyes slowly, locking her gaze on Megan's slow breaths. Silently, she counted the hours in her head, her brow furrowing slightly at the math she was trying to figure out in her head. "No," she said eventually. "Probably not before tomorrow morning."

"So it won't be a big problem if you go catch some sleep in your own bed and then come back here, right?"

"I should stay," Remy said sleepily. "She could wake up sooner, and I don't want her to be alone."

Spencer sighed. "How about this," she said. "I've got a bunch of paperwork to catch up on. You go home and catch up on some sleep, and I'll stay here in case Megan wakes up. If she does, I'll call you and you can break every speed limit known to man and be here in three minutes."

"No way," Remy said. She sat up slowly. "I can't ask you to stay here alone."

"You're not," Spencer said, an amused smile on her lips. "I offered. Because you need to get some sleep, chickie. Real sleep. At home."

"But—"

"Nope," Spencer said firmly. "No buts. Go home, Remy. I'll stay with her while you rest, and then you can come back tonight and relieve me."

"I… are you sure?" Remy couldn't deny that the thought of falling into bed and sleeping sounded wonderful.

"Positive," Spencer said. "Like I said, ton of paperwork. That account in Seattle is going to kill half of the rainforest with all of its paperwork, I think."

"Okay," Remy said reluctantly. "Thank you."

"Sure thing," Spencer said. She offered Remy a confident half-smirk. "You going to be good to get home?"

"Yeah, think so," Remy said. She pushed herself to her feet, groaning as she stretched. "I rode in the ambulance here. I can call a cab."

"Probably a good idea," Spencer said. "Wouldn't want you falling asleep at the wheel."

"Thanks for your confidence in me," Remy said, rolling her eyes. She gathered her coat, shrugging into it slowly.

"I have plenty of confidence in _you_," Spencer shot back. "Just not in your ability to stay awake right now."

"Yeah, yeah," Remy said. Spencer stood from her chair, handing Remy her purse. She paused, a hand on Remy's elbow, before pulling the doctor into a tight embrace. Remy all but fell into it, fingers gripping tightly at the material of Spencer's shirt.

"She'll be okay," Spencer said quietly, pressing her lips against Remy's hair.

"Hope so," Remy whispered into Spencer's shoulder. She pulled away reluctantly, offering a weak smile. "I'll see you later."

"I'll be here," Spencer said. She leaned forward, kissing Remy gently. "Now get out of here and get some sleep."

"Yes ma'am," Remy said. She turned slowly, shuffling towards the door. She paused, looking back, first at Spencer, then at Megan, then back. "Spence, I…" her voice trailed off as Spencer, settled back in her chair, looked up at her expectantly.

"Thanks," Remy forced out. "For everything. You're kind of amazing."

"Well," Spencer drawled. "What can I say? My fabulousness cannot be contained."

Remy laughed softly. Her chest ached, and she felt rather like what she had said was nothing like what she had really wanted to, but she could barely find the energy to remember the number of a cab company, much less decipher her own muddled feelings. Instead, she merely smiled once more at Spencer, casting a sad look at Megan, and then made her way out of the room.

Once home, she collapsed fully-clothed into bed. Exhaustion weighted her eyelids, but sleep refused to come.


	11. Forty

The thirty-first time Remy spoke to Megan, it was in a hospital room and Megan was silent, not responding to any of Remy's questions. She had regained consciousness mid-afternoon on Sunday, hours after Remy had come back to the hospital, showered and slightly more rested than when she had left. Spencer had drifted off to sleep in her chair, using her coat as a blanket and scarf as a pillow; Remy had tried unsuccessfully to convince her to go home the night before, but the brunette had shut her down repeatedly, insisting that Remy needed to rest. Remy had returned the next morning to find Spencer asleep and Megan still unconscious.

When Megan did wake, she stayed silent. Remy tried asking, pleading, begging, bartering, even a half-hearted attempt at appealing to some sense of guilt in Megan; she could barely get Megan to look at her, much less speak to her. Fear and guilt eventually gave way to frustration and annoyance, and Remy slumped back in her own chair, stewing. Megan remained curled up on her bed, her bandaged left arm hidden ashamedly under the blankets; she moved only when a nurse came in to check her IV and change the bandages.

An hour after Megan woke up, Spencer did as well. She yawned and stretched and looked from Megan to Remy, questions in her sleepy eyes. Remy shrugged frustratedly and sighed, throwing her hands up in surrender. Spencer looked awkwardly back and forth between the two of them a few more times, before she, too, shrugged; she quietly gathered her paperwork and her laptop back into the bag she had brought with her.

Remy paused before she and Spencer left, looking sadly back at Megan. Megan met her eyes briefly, and Remy wished fervently that the redhead would just _talk_ to her; instead, Megan blinked once and turned her gaze down to a spot on the blanket. Remy sighed and said she'd be back later, and tightened her grip on Spencer's hand, letting herself be lead out of the room.

The next time Remy spoke to Megan, Megan stayed silent. The time after that, and the time after that, and the five times after that, she stayed silent. Every day, three times a day, she came to Megan's room and tried to convince Megan to speak to her at all. Megan wasn't mute after waking up—she spoke to the nurses, albeit quietly and only on occasion, as they told Remy—but she refused to meet Remy's eyes, and remained stubbornly resistant to every question, every frustrated barb, every defeated shrug and sigh and wistful good-bye Remy offered.

The fortieth time Remy spoke to Megan, it was six days after the redhead had sent herself to the hospital in the wake of her mysterious panic-inducing encounter, and Megan finally spoke back. Remy was so startled by the sudden sound of a voice besides her own in the silence of the room that she almost dropped the mug of lukewarm coffee from her hands.

"What?" she sputtered out, transferring the coffee from her untrustworthy hands to the security of the table beside her chair. "What did you say?"

Megan avoided her eyes yet again, focusing her gaze on a spot on the wall in front of her feet. She picked at a loose thread in the embroidered blanket that Remy had brought from Megan's apartment two days earlier, a desperate attempt at bribery. Her left arm remained folded over her legs, cradled unconsciously; her forearm, where it peeked out from under the oversized sleeves of her hospital gown and the fresh bandaging, was peppered with fresh bruises (_purpura_, Remy corrected herself again). Her narrow shoulders were slumped, her spine curved uncharacteristically. The slump in her posture bothered Remy endlessly—Megan's obsessive yoga practice and years of musical training had left her with impeccable posture, her back always effortlessly straight and shoulders back. Whether it was physical weakness in the aftermath of trauma or apathy, Remy wasn't sure, but the slouch dragging down her shoulders fueled the simmering rage in Remy's chest.

"Megan," Remy said. Her voice was sharper than she intended, and both of them winced visibly. "Megan," she said again, actively trying to temper the bite in her voice. "I know you just said something."

Megan shook her head minutely. She continued to play with the loose thread on her blanket, looking anywhere in the room but at Remy. Her lips pursed, her jaw clenching visibly.

"Megan, come on," Remy said tiredly. "This is getting ridiculous. We're not children. I get that you're clearly dealing with something here, and I know I might not be able to do anything to help but dammit, I still want to _try_, but I can't do that if you won't just tell me what the hell you just said!" By the time she finished her sentence, her anger was pushing through to the surface, unavoidable and undisguised. She shoved herself to her feet, pushing her hair out of her face and starting to pace the short distance to the door and back.

She could feel Megan's eyes tracing her path rhythmically, and it only encouraged her anger. Clinging to what she could of calmness and rationality, she crossed her arms over her stomach and came to a halt at the foot of Megan's bed. She stared at Megan, feeling her expression shift slowly from angry to thoughtful.

"Look," she said finally. Her voice sounded foreign to her own ears, weighted with a week of concern and paranoia and frustration and confusion, of almost-sleepless nights and eating nothing but hospital cafeteria food or whatever she picked up on the drives between the hospital and Spencer's apartment in the city because as little as she slept when she was there (she had spent many an evening ranting to Spencer for what felt like hours) she couldn't sleep at all at home. "I don't know what you want me to do here. I don't know what you wanted me to do differently. Maybe you're angry that I didn't get there soon enough to stop you, or maybe you're angry that I got there as soon as I did. Maybe you're mad about the naltrexone treatment. Maybe you're not mad at me at all and you're just tired of me being around. It could be anything, I guess, but I wouldn't know, because _you won't tell me_.

"I want to be there for you, Megan," Remy said softly. "I really do. I know that I'm not the kind of person anyone should look to for support, but frankly, at this point in time? I think that I'm all that you've got. I don't want that to be the case, because you're a pretty amazing girl and anyone would be lucky to have you as a friend, but we both know that me and Spence are the only people who've been her to see you." She refrained from bringing up the four times that House had stopped in and tried to cajole Megan into admitting to a sex-and-heroin relationship with Remy, or the kind but stern warning from Cuddy.

"I'd do whatever I could, if you'd let me," Remy whispered. "I really would. You're my best friend, and I know that I haven't been much of a friend to you, but things are different now."

"Why?" Megan said after a long pause. Her voice came out just barely above a whisper. Remy stared at her dully, biting down on the inside of her cheek at staying silent, determined to make Megan complete the question. "Why is anything different?"

"Because," Remy said. She shook her hair back from her eyes tiredly. "Because you showed me how much of a shitty friend I had been, without even trying. Because I'm learning to live with who I am and what I have to deal with. Because I'd forgotten what it was like to have someone who gave a damn about me, or who I cared about so much. Because you trusted me enough to tell me the truth about your family." She hesitated, taking a deep breath. "Because I watched you crash, and crash hard. Because I couldn't stop it. Because you almost die and I should have been able to prevent it."

She finally caught Megan's eyes, staring tiredly and impassively at her friend until Megan blinked, looking down at her lap again.

"It's not your fault," Megan said softly. "You should know that much. Six months ago, if this had happened, I guess I'd be dead now. No one else would have followed me." She pulled at the loose thread once more. "So, don't blame yourself for any of this. It wasn't your fault.

"And I know that you have questions. But, you know, I had questions for a long time, too, and you never answered them. You just drank at my bar and passed out in my car and kissed me and refused to answer any questions about anything.

"So, what then?" Remy said. She laughed humorlessly. "You're going to give me a taste of my own medicine? See if the melodramatic bitch likes how it feels to be shut out?"

"No," Megan said, her answer coming far too slowly for comfort. Remy barked out another short laugh, shaking her head.

"That's nice, Megan," she said. "Really nice."

"That's not what I meant," Megan protested weakly. She stared at Remy with wide eyes, cloudy grey dark against the alabaster of her skin; after only a few seconds, she broke the gaze, flushing delicately and returning her stare to her lap.

"Yeah," Remy said. "That's convincing." Pressure grew in Remy's chest, pressing against her heart; she felt like choking on Megan's explanation. It may be exactly what she deserved in an eye-for-an-eye world, but it felt like far worse, as if she had been suckerpunched in the chest with a jackhammer.

"Remy," Megan said. "That's not what I meant."

"Oh, it isn't?" Remy shot back. "Come on, Megan. You've never been any good at lying, we both know that. Just admit it to yourself and call this what it is." She strode over to the chair she had sat in all week, grabbing up her coat and purse with more anger than she really had energy for. "You're mad at me still. Which I get. I totally get that, and I know I deserve it, because I was an ass like no other. But really, I always thought you were a bigger person than that. Better than me, at least."

"I'm not any better or worse than you," Megan said quietly.

"Guess not," Remy said. She felt her cheeks flush at how evident the hurt was in her voice, far too strong to be masked by her frustration. "Right down here in the gutter with all of us emotional screw-ups and jerks."

"You're not a jerk!" Megan said, her voice stronger than it had been the entire time.

"Doesn't matter," Remy said softly. Her anger was quickly evaporating, leaving her little more than tired and frustrated and hurt; she felt it slipping out of her body and felt like her skeleton was deflating without the heat of anger to keep her upright.

"You're not a jerk," Megan said firmly. "You're really not. And I'm not trying to punish you in some weird payback kind of way, either."

"Yeah," Remy said. Her sarcasm fell flat, her voice dull.

"Really," Megan said. "You aren't a jerk. I'm not trying to punish you. I'm just…" she cut herself off, turning her eyes away and sighing angrily. She pulled absently at the bandages on her arm, and winced when the tape pulled away from her skin, the bandage flopping uselessly from her arm.

Blowing air out through her lips, Remy dropped her purse and coat back onto the chair and crossed to the cabinet on the other side of the room. Briskly, sinking into her doctor mode, she retrieved a fresh dressing and tossed it onto Megan's bed, taking a seat by her leg and pulling Megan's arm into her lap. Silently, she removed the old bandage and inspected the inside of Megan's arm, staring critically at the four holes where the needles had ripped through skin when Megan desperately shoved the drugs into her body, the dark bruising spreading up and down her arm from the burst blood vessels, the purpura dotting the skin of her forearm. Biting down on her lip, she picked up the fresh bandage with her free hand, not releasing the gentle hold her fingers had on Megan's arm, and tore it open with her teeth.

"I'm not trying to punish you," Megan repeated, voice soft, as Remy set the new bandage in place and double checked to make sure it was properly secured, gentle fingers contrasting sharply with the crease in her brow. "I'm just… I don't know. Trying to avoid having to talk about things, I guess."

"You have to talk about it sometime," Remy said, surprising even herself with her calm words.

"Do not," Megan said childishly.

"Bull," Remy shot back. She still hadn't let go of Megan's arm, long fingers gripping above her elbow softly. "Not talking about shit, not dealing with it, is why you went all emo teenager freakout and wound up in here."

"I'm not emo," Megan muttered.

"Please," Remy laughed. It sounded and felt genuine, to Remy's surprise. "You're totally emo. We both are. We just have better hair and wear less make-up."

"I'm not emo," Megan repeated. "I listen to Fanfarlo and the Who, not Fallout Boy."

Remy snorted. "Doesn't matter," she said. "We're emo kids. It's just a fact of the matter."

Megan sighed. "Fine," she conceded. "But that's not the point."

"No," Remy said quietly, the laughter fading from her eyes. "Guess not."

Megan took a deep breath. "I don't know if I'm ready to talk about it all right now," she said, speaking slowly. "There's just… a lot there, you know? And I'm not sure that you—" She cut herself off, biting down on her lip. Remy looked down, her hand slipping away from Megan's arm to rest in her own lap.

"It's okay, I get it," she said wryly. "I'm a train wreck. Not the best choice for big important talks and playing confidant or counselor."

Megan looked away guiltily, gnawing incessantly on her lower lip, hands twisting in her lap.

"It's okay," Remy said again. She was proud at how well she masked the hurt welling in her throat, but as pained as she was to admit it, Megan was justified in not wanting to depend on someone like her to confide in.

"I do want to tell you," Megan said quietly. "I do. I just want to sort it out first, I guess?"

"You need to talk to someone," Remy said, standing from the bed and pushing her hands into her pockets awkwardly.

"I know," Megan whispered.

Remy nodded slowly, eyes drifting thoughtfully to where her coat lay hanging half-off of the chair she had tossed it onto. "If you want," she said slowly. "Spencer doubled in marketing and psych at Columbia. She might know some people from school who practice around here, could maybe recommend someone. I could ask her, if you wanted."

She felt a twinge in her stomach as Megan stared at her curiously, and wished fervently that she could rescind the suggestion. As supportive as Megan had been of Remy seeing Spencer, the two of them had still technically not met, and Megan seemed to feel uncomfortable with the fact that Spencer had been the person Remy was confiding in the entire week about Megan's situation; Remy should have realized that, given Megan's obvious discomfort with Spencer having been a part of any of the preceding week at all, she would be unlikely to want any of Spencer's friends playing Freud with her.

"Just a thought," Remy said uncomfortably, after a long and awkward silence. She sighed, glancing at her watch. It was almost nine, and she was exhausted. The vacation time Cuddy had granted her was over at midnight; after that, she was back to work and on call starting at eight the next morning. As much as she wanted to stay all night with Megan and push and prod and nag until Megan laid it all out in the open, she wanted even more to just_ sleep_. Spencer had told her in no uncertain terms that Remy was not to drive into the city that night and that she would come to Remy's place instead, so that Remy could get as much sleep as possible before going back on call.

"I should go," Remy said eventually. "It's kind of late, and I'm on call tomorrow. I need to crash."

Megan remained silent as Remy waited, counting out ten seconds in her head, before sighing and gathering her things from where they rested haphazardly on the chair. "I'm on call all weekend, and I told Dr. Cameron I would cover for one of her ER doctors Sunday afternoon, so I'll be around. I'll come up whenever I can." She moved to the door slowly.

"Remy," Megan said, her voice drawing Remy's head around. Her eyes were dull, her voice soft. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Remy said. She sounded only halfway convincing. "I get it." She slid the door open. "Call me if you need anything, or tell Laura to page me."

"Okay," Megan said quietly. She offered a small smile, far quieter than even her normal smile, but it brought a half-smile of her own to Remy's lips.

"Good night," she said. "We'll talk tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay," Megan whispered.

Nodding once more, Remy stepped out of the room and slid the door shut behind her. She waved half-heartedly to Laura and the other nurses and shuffled down the hallway, shoulders slumped. By the time she made it home, Spencer was standing outside of her building, arms and legs crossed and an unreadable look in her eyes. She wrapped an arm around Remy's waist tightly, pressing a kiss to her temple and letting Remy lean on her the whole way up to her apartment.

Remy lay awake long after Spencer had drifted off next to her. Unblinking eyes stared at the ceiling above her bed, and she shivered in spite of the sweatshirt she wore and the blanket draped over the bed and the warmth radiating from Spencer's form, her conversation with Megan anchoring a chill in her stomach that refused to leave. Light from the sunrise was filtering through her bedroom window when she finally drifted off to a sleep plagued with quiet nightmares of a disappointed Megan shaking her head and simply walking away, her form shrinking from Remy's sight until the redhead was naught more than a dark spot on the horizon.


End file.
